


Cindernick - A Clameron fairy tale

by greengerbil



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:02:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7635973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greengerbil/pseuds/greengerbil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all, I feel. This is an unashamedly romantic Clameron fairy tale. Any resemblance to a traditional fairy tale with a similar title is wholly intentional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few years ago I saw a comment regarding Clameron as a 'fairy tale romance'. It wasn't exactly a prompt, but my brain chose to interpret it that way.
> 
> So after several years' intermittent work on this, during which time I retired (and promptly became busier than I had ever been while I was gainfully employed!) here is my Clameron fairy tale.

** Cindernick – a Clameron fairy tale. **

Chapter 1

Once upon a time in a land not so very far away, there lived in the fair township of Goldeagle a rich merchant. Master Ashdown lived happily alone for many years; with his business, his books and his friends to occupy him he felt little need for closer ties. Then one day his steward Goodman Cable opened the door to find a foundling babe, wrapped in the shawl of the Wandering Folk, squalling and kicking on the merchant's front door step. Rather than place the child into the care of the parish, as was the custom with such abandoned waifs, the merchant took the child into his household and brought him up as his own. Beneath his somewhat gruff exterior Ashdown proved to be a kind and goodhearted man, and the boy was bright and honest and loving, and the two came to love each other as if they were truly father and son.

As the years passed, young Nick - for so Master Ashdown named him - grew into a handsome lad, light of build, long-legged and chestnut-haired, with changeable blue eyes that sparkled with wit and good fellowship. He was always ready with a kind word or a good deed, and although he was involved in the usual amount of mischief that is the lot of any spirited youngster, none of it was malicious or harmful to another, and the merchant grew daily more thankful at his good fortune in finding such an heir for his old age. 

Then, when Nick was on the verge of passing from youth into manhood, and he and his guardian were considering what path his life should take, this happy life came to an end. Master Ashdown received a message that the greatest of his trading ships had been lost at sea with all its cargo, and although the losses were not crippling, they were heavy, and required the merchant's personal attention. So he packed up his carriage and his gawky, red-headed beanpole of a body-servant Danny, waved farewell to his ward, and left for the far distant lands which few in their riverside town had ever visited - though Ashdown had grown up there, and only come to settle in Goldeagle once he had won his Mastership in the Merchants’ Guild and was free to start his own business.

Nick waved goodbye to his guardian, biting his lip fiercely to hide the tears that threatened so shamefully, and worked hard to keep himself occupied over the following months. And since he had his books and his many studies, his favourite places to wander in the hills and woods around the town, the river in which to swim and play and his friends among those sons and daughters of Goldeagle whose parents were willing to overlook his questionable ancestry, he succeeded very well - though the absence of the man who had been a father to him for as long as he could remember would nevertheless stab at him at unexpected moments, making him fall silent or turn away, even in the most riotous of company or the most thrilling of sports and games. He never ceased to look for his guardian's return, for the day when his friend Danny drove the Ashdown carriage through the main gate of the great house on Cowley Street and drew up with that proud flourish which only ever came to his handling of the reins when his master was in his charge.

And then, almost two years after Nick's guardian had left, with the world once again turning towards spring after a winter of storms and gales which even the oldest of the town's citizens acknowledged to be one of the most turbulent they could remember, a great entourage of carriages and wagons piled high with baggage drew up in the manse courtyard. Nick ran eagerly to the door, throwing it wide, but crushing disappointment awaited him.

Not one of the three men who disembarked from the largest and most opulent of the carriages was Nick's guardian.

First out of the great black berline was a tall, thin man, richly but neatly clad in the elaborate and fashionable clothes of the Imperial court and carrying an ebony cane with a great globe of crystal set in the handle. His eyes were dark, as was his hair, and despite his slender build his gaze was intelligent and coldly proud, effortlessly dominating all around him - including the two younger and larger men who followed him out of their luxurious equipage. One of these was tall and broad-shouldered, with brown hair lightened almost to fairness by the sun and a countenance that might have been considered handsome had it not been set in an expression of cold superiority; the other was less tall but of a strong, stocky build, darker than his companion, his broad, blunt-featured face - which was already blurring with the tell-tale signs of dissipation - bearing a black scowl of sullen discontent. 

Even as Nick slowed his headlong rush, sudden apprehension blowing coldly through his excitement, the older man turned to face him, holding up one hand in imperious command.

“That is quite enough of that! I can see that your guardian has been most remiss in teaching you the rudiments of civilised behaviour - though indeed, that is hardly surprising. Attempting to teach one of your... _primitive_ blood how to behave in polite society without using the strictest of disciplines was - shall we say, a futile undertaking? But there - Cousin Ashdown was always too soft-hearted for his own good.” 

The new arrival sighed and shook his head as his two companions snickered, and Nick flushed and hung his head, embarrassment flooding through him at his lack of manners even as anger sparked at the criticism of Master Ashdown. He felt little anger at the insult to his blood; he had become accustomed to such comments from the citizens of Goldeagle, though his guardian had never allowed such slighting references to pass unremarked if he overheard them.

And now this man too was contemptuous of his kin, and in a world-weary, matter-of-fact tone which felt worse than any shouted insult or angry smear - as if what he was saying was so obvious, so self-evident, that it needed no extra emphasis or emotion to carry conviction...

… but then the visitor spoke again, and Nick abruptly forgot about his dubious forebears. 

“Cousin Ashdown is dead, boy, and this estate – and all within it, including yourself – belongs to me now. And it seems that we are going to have our work cut out for us here, aren't we, gentlemen? A clumsy, halfwitted fool to be taught his rightful place, and an estate to be brought to order.”

The cold words struck Nick like a physical blow, but dazed as he was with shock and misery, the boy barely flinched. The lordly, arrogant man was looking around, pleasure and possession clear to see in every turn of that neat, dark head. Then murmured words came, musings that were clearly not meant for Nick's ears. 

“Yes… yes. An impressive structure, I had no idea that Ashdown had done so well for himself… of course the approach must be paved rather than grassed… and statues, naturally… 

"Boy!"

He beckoned imperiously and Nick found himself obeying without thought, hastening to the stranger’s side. A thin face glanced down at him and as he looked a silent enquiry one well-shaped eyebrow arched while the cold dark eyes were suddenly even colder, with a glint of menace.

“Y- yes, my lord?” Nick found himself stammering, even as he was furiously telling himself to say nothing, to leave this proud, distant man and give way to his grief somewhere private, away from the gaze of uncaring strangers. 

A brief, satisfied smile flickered across the older man’s face and a spark of anger flared somehow in Nick's cold desolation. Straightening his shoulders, he lifted his stubborn chin in a defiant stare, and the stranger’s smirk died as he stared back. Then the man lifted his cane and tapped Nick on the chest with the great crystal set atop the handle.

A strange, tingling sensation flared through Nick from the touch of the great stone, which seemed to wash through him like foam across a beach, leaving his extremities prickling as if returning to life after a long sleep and his brain washed clean of thought and feeling... 

Somewhere outside the surf noise in his mind, the stranger was speaking. 

“Boy, I am Lord Mandelson of the Duchy of Roseheim, Thaumaturge to the Imperial Court and Heir to the Ashdown lands, monies and estates here in Goldeagle Freeport. As you were in Master Ashdown’s guardianship you are now in mine. However I have little time to waste on you and no need of your footling services, such as they may be; I have two journeymen of my own, well-trained and of good family, and I have no intention of neglecting my own affairs because I have inherited the care of a feckless, ignorant, clumsy halfwit who has never been taught his place!

“Now - you will show us over the house while the porters unload our baggage. Quickly, boy, quickly, Master Ashdown might have tolerated your slowness and stupidity but be sure that I will not!”

Thus Nick's hard new life began.

Effortlessly taking control of the Ashdown business and household, Lord Mandelson wasted little time in arranging matters to his own liking. He let it be known that the boy Nick had no true claim on the family, since he possessed no ties of blood that a cousin of Master Ashdown was under any obligation to recognise. When a delegation from the town came to call on their town's new resident, to welcome him and to discover Master Ashdown's fate - for rumour, like all bad news, had swept through Goldeagle within hours of Mandelson's train entering the town - Nick was bewildered to find them all agreeing with the tall stranger, nodding their heads at his reasoning and accepting his softly-spoken insinuations that like all such foundlings, Nick was lazy and dishonest, clumsy and insolent, destined to come to a bad end like the rest of his feckless tribe.

Only one man, Goodman Cable, who had been Ashdown's steward as well as handling much of his local trade, expressed any concern as to Nick's fate, and when Lord Mandelson assured him that Nick would not be thrown penniless out into the street to become a charge on the parish, but on the contrary, would be taught skills far more suited to his lowly status than the education that he had received from an overindulgent guardian - why, even the old steward nodded his bald head and agreed good-naturedly that such 'would do the lad good - Master Ashdown spoiled the lad shamelessly, I've always said so!'

If Cable had indeed said such things, it had never been in Nick's hearing. Indeed, it had been the steward who had slipped Nick sweets and other such treats on the rare occasions when he had been in disgrace with his guardian, and had taken Nick's part when other parents had come calling, blaming Nick for their own offspring's petty misdemeanours.

And so young Nick, still dazed and stupid with grief and loss, was designated the pot boy and household drudge, for he had not been trained for any other occupation; at least, so said Lord Mandelson, and there was no-one to dispute his ruling. Nick was therefore no longer entitled to a room of his own; he was ordered out, told to find an unwanted cubbyhole somewhere about the place while the taller of the two journeymen, the one called 'Alastair', moved into Nick's old rooms and laid claim to all his possessions, his books and childhood toys, his furnishings and clothes and treasured objects; everything he owned was shared between Lord Mandelson's journeymen, leaving him with nothing save a few garments so old and patched that no-one wanted them. 

All the old servants were dismissed and most of their duties given to Nick, with only a few new servitors hired for the purposes of prestige - no truly wealthy household would manage its affairs without at the very least a butler, a steward, a housekeeper and a chef, plus of course a master groom and his underlings. Not one of these new servants were known to Nick, and they either did not know or pretended not to know Nick as anything other than the pot boy and general boy-of-all-work. 

Nick found himself hard at work from before first light until well after dark. Drudgery and exhaustion ruled his days while around him his guardian’s comfortable, friendly old house was transformed into a great mansion where parties and soirées, balls and entertainments became the order of the day. 

For Lord Mandelson had immediately set about becoming a personage of note in Goldeagle. Although he spent much of his day shut up in his own suite of rooms, Alastair and Charles were often to be seen out and about in the town, drinking in the taverns, visiting the more important merchants, attending parties and paying court to the daughters and sons of the town worthies, and escorting the occasional visitor who wished to purchase the favour of Lord Mandelson in some enterprise. 

Nick, meanwhile, found that although he was able to leave the house on the occasional errand or on his permitted half-day, he could not be away for long without being forced to return; nor could he speak to anyone of what went on in his master's household without his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, forcing him to stammer like the halfwit Lord Mandelson had named him. None of the citizens he met when he was out running errands seemed to recognise him as Master Ashdown's one-time ward, and those he had known the best barely seemed to see him at all. 

While his memories... he remembered his guardian, and his happy childhood, the dreams and hopes for his future that he and Master Ashdown had shared - but Nick could only recall them as mere pale pictures, bearing none of the happy emotions that Nick knew they _should_ carry with them, that would help him to briefly escape the drudgery of his new life. Nick knew that he had known joy; the happiness of friendship and good fellowship, the delight of learning, the wonder of seeing a new dawn or the sudden piercing awareness of beauty... but all these feelings and more were locked away now, imprisoned behind a wall of non-feeling that he could not penetrate, no matter how he fought to break through it and regain his past.

And of all his new master's cruelties, that seemed to him to be the greatest of all. 

So it seemed that Nick's suspicions from their first meeting were correct; that strange term 'thaumaturge' was indeed an Imperial term for a wizard. Lord Mandelson was a wielder of the uncanny powers of Magick, and his insistence that he had served at the Imperial Court was no idle boast. What could such a powerful and skilled enchanter want with the town of Goldeagle, and the property of Master Ashdown? It was clear that the journeymen were acting under their master's orders in all their forays into the social life of the town - though Charles, for one, appeared to truly enjoy the rough-and-tumble of the mock combats with the young bloods of Goldeagle, while Alastair's fondness for fine wines and spirits was both genuine and somewhat excessive - for Lord Mandelson held regular meetings with the pair behind the closed doors of his study, where he demanded regular reports on their activities. 

Only Nick ever heard anything of these meetings. It was part of his duties to clean and light the fire in Lord Mandelson's study every morning, as it was to scrub and tidy all the rooms of the house, and such was Mandelson's contempt for the youth that he rarely, if ever, watched his tongue while Nick was in his presence. Nick had rapidly learned to be quick, efficient, and above all, quiet, in carrying out his duties, because any noise or clumsiness led inexorably to aching shoulders or a sore head, and soon felt that he was almost invisible as far as his master was concerned. 

Nick could only wish that the journeymen shared their master's attitude! But although they were just as contemptuous of Ashdown's one-time ward as was their master, they found pleasure in baiting and belittling the defenceless pot boy whenever they felt in need of some diversion. They loved to remind Nick of his change in status, and with memories of an old nursery tale, quickly renamed the new drudge 'Ashface', 'CinderNick', or just plain 'Skivvy'. They took pleasure in striking or tripping him as he went about his duties, and often played malicious tricks on him, leading to his being summoned by the furious butler Bryant to re-polish a floor that the journeymen had just muddied or to tidy a room that they had reduced to chaos. Nick quickly learned never to protest this injustice, for Bryant had a heavy hand to go with his sharp tongue.

As for the many entertainments Lord Mandelson laid on - those Nick anticipated with pleasure, despite the extra work that they caused him, for they were glittering social occasions which added colour and excitement to his days. All of the town’s great and good would attend, and as Lord Mandelson’s reputation grew, and he was appointed first a Burgher and then a full Alderman of the Town Council, the circle of guests, too, expanded, so that before long guests were attending from as far away as Blueforest, the great and wealthy Duchy whose lands were largely separated from the much smaller territory of Goldeagle by the great river Hoc - the very river which provided Goldeagle with the famous harbour which was the key to its independence.

Nick loved to see the guests arrive, dressed in their finest clothes, many of them glittering with jewels and exotic silks and furs. Sometimes a great lady would smile at him, or a gentleman flick a careless coin his way with a nod of cheerful good nature, and Nick treasured these small actions beyond all else. To be spoken to warmly, to be treated - no matter in how trivial a fashion - with a little kindness... Nick would hug those moments close and replay them in his memory over and over again, finding some solace in the remembrance of a lady's kind eyes, or a handsome gentleman's warm smile. 

But many were the nights when he lay huddled under his rag of blanket - near the hearth where a little warmth lingered - while the gnawing of hunger kept him from exhausted sleep. It was then that despair threatened to overcome him completely.

Nick refused to allow such bouts of misery to last long, however. Although he might wake of a morning with eyes sore from weeping, or with a lingering sense of foreboding from some dark dream, he would always clench his teeth, gather his courage, and set himself to endure. For surely, he would tell himself stubbornly as he swept and scrubbed and mopped and polished, brought in the firewood and the coal, cleaned out fireplaces and stoves, and washed, peeled, and chopped under the impatient, hot-tempered eye of the cook, Goodman Balls, surely things would change?

Lord Mandelson must have come to Goldeagle in pursuit of some plan of his own devising, and Nick's position as household drudge meant he was uniquely fitted to discover what that plan might be. No one ever really noticed him, after all! And then - Nick would find some way of stopping him. For dishonest, lazy and worthless though he was - and Nick could not help feeling in his heart of hearts that since everyone said he was of such feckless character then it must be true - he knew that he could not stand by and let Mandelson, with all his dark powers, prevail.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Even the most downtrodden servant was entitled, under the laws of Goldeagle, to a little time off, and not even Lord Mandelson quite dared to break that tradition. Every six days, therefore, while Lord Mandelson and his apprentices were out, first at the River Blessing ceremony and then breaking bread with their fellows in the great feast which always followed the Speaker's peroration, Nick was permitted a half-day's free time to do with as he wished. As long as he was back in time to clean the kitchen, set the fire in the hearth and light the great range in the early hours of the morning, no-one cared where the household drudge went or what he did with his precious few hours of freedom.

In that treasured free time Nick would roam far. He had grown up wandering the woods and hills outside the town and had many favourite places discovered in those long-ago happy times. Sometimes he would go down to the harbour to watch the great merchant ships and galleys loading and unloading, enjoying the sounds of the many languages spoken by the crewmen. A strange ship might be in, from some land new to Nick, and those would be a special treat. Nick would drink in the sound of the language and study the appearance and manner of the traders, making guesses about the land and the society from whence they had come and marvelling at the exotic goods they had brought with them. 

At other times Nick recognised the speech of visiting ships as belonging to one of the many trading tongues which his guardian had insisted he learn. Then he might even attempt a few words with the friendliest-looking crewmen from those ships, attempting to refresh his knowledge, and the sailors thus addressed would often respond, taking pleasure in this stranger's attempts to speak to them in their own language. Oft-times, taking the boy for a beggar, they would proffer a few coins, or a heel of bread and lump of cheese or salt beef - a bounty which Nick would politely refuse unless he could do some small service in return.

As time passed his words became less stumbling and gave rise to less laughter and more easy gossip, until Nick felt that he could almost - _almost_ \- count one or two of the more frequent visitors as... friends? Certainly not unfriends, and perhaps more than acquaintances, easing, if only by a very little, Nick's aching loneliness. One or two of the small traders at the dockside also learned to recognise the leggy, ragged youth who hung about the quays, and employed him on small tasks - running messages, or translating for foreign sailors who wished to bargain over some trinket or keepsake. Any coin earned thus would be rapidly spent on food to eke out the sparse rations that were otherwise all that came Nick's way, and the jabber of foreign tongues and rapid-fire bargaining filled another kind of hunger, for excitement and knowledge and adventure. And then Nick would wander home through the busy, crowded alleyways and streets, past the bazaars and the markets, with a full stomach and a head full of strangeness and colour and dreams of far away.

In the summer, however, Nick's most favourite place of all was a secluded pond deep in the forest outside the town. The long daylight hours meant that he had time to get there and back, and the deep pool, fed by a clear stream which chuckled its way over many-coloured stones to both feed and drain the wide, sky-reflecting expanse, was perfect for swimming in, for bathing, or for simply sitting by and dreaming. 

Others visited the pool, which was close to the border with - if not actually in - Blueforest territory, but Nick rarely saw them, and gradually fell into the habit of thinking of the pool as his alone.

So it came as a shock when, on a sunny summer's day some years after his life changed so catastrophically, Nick found 'his' pool occupied. 

He was threading his way through the trees and bushes that bordered the stretch of clear water when he heard splashing, and then a shout of laughter and the merry sound of two male voices joking and teasing.

Moving with even more care, Nick ducked into the cover of the bushes and then carefully parted the leafy branches to see who had invaded his refuge.

On the far side of the pond two richly-harnessed horses were tethered, grazing peacefully on the rich grass of the small meadow that bordered the stretch of water there, while kneeling on the very bank of the pond a man clothed in the extravagant style of the Blueforest Court - all tight lacing and intricately-threaded embroidery, colourful silk stockings and elaborately-worked cuffs - was engaged in laying out a generous array of meats and pastries on a dazzling white cloth. While sliding smoothly through the water, powerful limbs cutting the surface with skill and muscled ease...

Nick's mouth went dry and he flushed hot from head to toe as the swimmer stood up with a vigorous shake of his head, sending droplets flying in a silver spray before he waded ashore, sweeping the water from his lightly-tanned torso with impatient sweeps of his hands. From his hiding place Nick had a perfect view of the stranger's compact, muscled body, smooth skin, and long, powerful legs, and as he watched the water drip from the smooth dark hair to run so intriguingly down the other's spine he found himself swallowing hard and then biting down hard on his lip to stop himself groaning out loud. He wanted to - to _touch_ , to run his hands across that beautiful skin, to feel the other's body against his -

\- Then a bird took flight from the trees behind Nick and the stranger turned to look in his direction as he carelessly rubbed himself dry, and Nick, safe in his concealment, bit back a gasp as he saw the other man's face for the first time. Such wonderful eyes - such a dark shade of blue, and so large and expressive that they dominated the handsome, good-humoured countenance... 

_Ohh, he's so beautiful! Who is he -_

Then the man on the bank spoke, and Nick's newly awakened heart plummeted into despair.

"Come and eat, my Prince, and I hope you have a hearty appetite today!"

The man pulling on old and well-worn hunting garments made some bantering reply to 'George' but Nick did not hear it, lost in misery as he was. This must be the young heir to the Duchy of Blueforest, the adopted grandson of the Iron Lady who had ruled the rich fiefdom with steely efficiency, brooking no opposition, for as long as Nick could remember. The prince had but recently returned from his years of schooling abroad, Nick recalled now, and there had been much talk in Lord Mandelson's study of the Duchess's search for a suitable consort for her grandson, and the number of rich balls and revels that this campaign was likely to engender. 

Not only a handsome prince, of a social sphere so far above Nick's that he might as well be from the stars, but one looking for a woman to partner him...

Still, he and his friend George looked very easy together, didn't they? 

_Don't be foolish, Nick!_ Nick castigated himself, watching Prince David fling himself down on the grass next to the black-haired, pale but handsome George and make a hearty meal, laughing and joking with his friend all the while. Every change in expression, every laugh and easy gesture sent another shaft of yearning to pierce him through. _Even if he was, or - or is - one for men rather than women, he's not for you. Not for Cindernick the Wanderers' brat..._

_...but oh! He's so beautiful!_

...

While Nick watched, and yearned, Prince David and his aide-de-camp Lord Osborne relaxed on the soft grass, chatting idly and eating heartily of the generous picnic lunch which George had persuaded out of the palace cooks that morning. Eventually even the prince's appetite was satisfied and he lay back with a sigh of repletion to stare up at the limitless blue above him, one hand carelessly rubbing up and down George's thigh much in the manner of a man with a favourite hunting dog - as George roundly informed him.

Grinning, David rolled over and stared up at his friend, crinkling his eyes against the sun.

"You should be flattered," he said sententiously, "I don't think of just anyone as my favourite hunting dog, you know - ow! Peace, George! Peace! Not after that meal, I pray you - "

Mollified at the prince's piteous howls, George ceased his vigorous tickling and lay down next to his friend. After a few seconds' silence, David said reflectively, "I suppose I will have to stop doing this when I'm married."

"Why? I can't see you picking a consort who doesn't enjoy riding and outdoor pursuits as much as you do. Where would be the point in that? The one you marry should be your partner in all things, not just in governing the duchy."

"I know," sighed the prince. "The trouble is... Oh, hang it, George, I can't see myself with _any_ of the women Grandmother has found for me! They're intelligent enough, and beautiful, I suppose, and most of them possess at least something approaching a sense of humour, but -"

"- They're none of them The One."

"No," agreed David, grateful for his friend's understanding. "They're none of them The One." Then his mood lightened, and he grinned, refusing to remain downhearted for long. "The only good thing that's come out of this whole ridiculous pageant is that at least you've found _your_ One! When are you and the Lady Frances going to stop dancing around each other and do the decent thing?"

George blushed hotly, much to David's delight, and stammered something incomprehensible. Then David's smile disappeared as a few words emerged from the stuttering. 

“I, er... I can't, I mean... until you're betrothed - that is, Her Grace said -”

“What?”

All the easy humour vanished from David's face and steely eyes bored into George's. “All right, George, what has my grandmother to do with you and Lady Frances?”

George looked away. 

“I wasn't going to tell you, there's far too much being demanded of you as it is.” He took a deep breath.

“Lady Frances was a ward of the Court - her mother was one of Her Grace's ladies-in-waiting - and that means that even though she's now of age she must still have Her Grace's permission to marry. Her Grace has informed me that as your... aide, I cannot in conscience marry until you are also committed to, to...” George's mouth twisted, “'that happy state', as she put it.”

He looked up at his friend's face, wincing at the gathering fury so clearly visible. “Please, David, don't be angry!” George begged. “She's your grandmother, of course she wants you settled and, and happy -” 

“Oh, yes, she wants me happy - happily dancing to her tune! Grandmother always knows what's best, for everybody!” 

Furious, David had flung himself to his feet and was marching up and down, his hands vigorously chopping at the air as his mounting frustrations finally found relief in speech. 

“Well, what if I don't agree? What if _I_ want to decide where my life's going, what if _I_ want to choose my life partner _for myself?_ What if I don't want some pert, pretty princess or arrogant noble's brat, what if I want someone different - a, a merchant's daughter or a farmer's -”

“-son?”

George had caught him up but it wasn't the hand on his sleeve which stopped the prince in mid-tirade. It was George's interruption. That single word, dropped into his flood of speech like a stone into a flowing stream. And just like that stone it broke the current, smashing the whole shape of his thoughts, breaking it apart and reforming it into something very different... 

Suddenly all David's anger was gone, swallowed up by the easing of a tension he hadn't even known he was feeling. He exhaled a long sigh of relief.

“So you know.” 

His friend's dark eyes were full of understanding. “My prince, I've known you since I was breeched. We shared the same nursery, the same nannies, and the same arms tutors, and when you were appointed heir I was honoured to be named as your aide. I think I've always known. Probably before you did. Did you really have no inkling until university?”

"I'd wondered," David admitted. "When I found myself watching the stable lads rather than ogling the maids, and dreaming about some of the younger knights... But it didn't seem all that important compared to keeping up with all that was expected of me once I was nominated and accepted as Heir. There was so _much_ to learn, to fulfil Grandmother's expectations! Diplomacy and Imperial court etiquette from Lord Carrington... arithmetickal arts, history and geography from Chancellor Lamont... trying to master that damnable double-sword style that Lord Heseltine is so fond of... learning to hunt, and shoot, and dance, and converse, and - and - well, but you know all that, George. I didn't really have much time to think about _personal_ matters until I attended Oxenforde, where there was at least a little time and space to give to my own concerns - and I had to fight hard even for that! It was only because Grandmother studied there that the Central Council of Officiates let me go at all!"

"I know," said George soothingly, "Of course I know, my Prince. They have always asked so much of you, and you have always worked hard to accomplish everything that was asked. Personally I give daily thanks that I am of rather less exalted stock, and extremely unlikely ever to be considered for nomination. I am truly grateful that there are so many direct descendants of the Blood Royal that the CCO felt no need to cast its nets beyond the main Torai Bloodline when selecting an Heir - unlike in Her Grace's day!”

"When did you first suspect, then?" David questioned, his anger fading as curiosity took its place. Many people underestimated Osborne, seeing only the puppy-soft features and limpid dark eyes, but David was not one of them. David knew that along with his complete loyalty to David, his friend was possessed of a quick brain and a keen insight into the hearts of others.

George laughed. "I think your attack of calf-love for Sir Blair of Sedge's Field was something of a giveaway. I still vividly recall the way you followed our then Court Champion around like a lovesick puppy! Of course, it's almost obligatory for new-made squires to fall in love with their knights, but in your case it was a little more than that.”

David smiled reminiscently. “It was as violent as it was short-lived,” he agreed. “But - Lord, George! What did I ever see in him! A man so puffed up in his own consequence...”

“Competence,” retorted his friend. “You've always admired competence, and Sir Blair truly was almost as good as he believed himself to be. Otherwise your grandmother would never have appointed him Ambassador to the Imperial Court. But, my prince -” George was abruptly serious, “If you desire men, why have you not informed Her Grace? I am sure she would be delighted at the sudden increase in the number of potential partners! 

“Besides,” he added mischievously, “It will make determining the guest list for the Midsummer Festival so much easier! Her Grace can simply invite everyone of marriageable age!”

David groaned, covering his eyes with one neat, long-fingered hand. “I _know!_ Lord, George, don't remind me! That's why I've been delaying telling her! I have visions of Grandmother lining them all up, girls on the left, boys on the right, and expecting me to march down between them and pick someone out like a farmer at market buying a prize animal! Damn and blast it, why can't I find my own consort?”

The prince's language was deteriorating, always a sign that he was losing his composure, and George set himself to soothe.

“I'm sure she won't be quite that, um... insistent,” he said gently. “Your grandmother only wants you settled and happy, my prince. Don't forget she met her own future consort at a Midsummer Festival! It's only natural that she hopes you will do the same. I'm sure she won't expect you to pick someone out there and then - just find someone, perhaps more than one, whom you find interesting and, well, congenial. After all, that was what she did - although they met at the Festival, he was but a lowly Guildmaster, and of the Thatcher's Guild at that, and Her Grace had no thought of marrying him then and there! That came later... 

“I am sure therefore that all she will be hoping for is that you find a few young people who you will want to get to know a little better. No more than that! Surely that's not such an ordeal? You love to meet new people, and you love balls and parties and picnics. Why not simply allow yourself to enjoy the events, dance and fence and ride and hunt - all the things you love to do - and see what happens? Her Grace would never force you to take a consort you find unpleasant, whether that consort be male or female. ” 

David was nodding. “I know,” he sighed. “I know...”

Seeing his friend's concerned frown, he made himself smile in reassurance. “It's all right, George. Really. You're absolutely correct - as usual!" he added mischievously. George shook his head in mock reproof, and David grinned at him before continuing seriously,

"I must try to forget Grandmother's plans for me, or at least put them to the back of my mind. If I can do that, I am sure that I will enjoy this Midsummer Festival almost as much as I've enjoyed all the others I've attended - especially if I let Grandmother know that she's been looking in the wrong place for prospective partners for me all this time!

“Come along -” suddenly alight with energy, the prince made for the remains of their picnic, “Let's get all this packed away and go home. I have to request an audience with my grandmother before they finalise the guest list for the Festival!” 

...

Still hidden behind the bushes at the edge of the pond, Nick watched the two men ride away in the direction of the Castle and town of Torai, Blueforest's ducal seat, then he cautiously emerged from cover. When he realised that he was still looking longingly after them - or more precisely, after the prince - he shook his head irritably at himself and hastened round the pond to the small stretch of grassy meadow where the two nobles had picnicked. 

Once there he found himself kneeling where the prince had lain, brushing one hand hesitantly across the flattened grass.

_It was here. Just... here. He was lying right there -_

Suddenly waking to what he was doing, Nick shot to his feet, castigating himself for his pathetic behaviour. Swooning over a handsome face like some romantic, lovesick poet! Fool! Idiot! The prince didn't even know he _existed!_

Impatiently stripping off his ragged shirt and breeches, Nick ran three steps forward and threw himself into the clear water in a long, shallow dive which took him away from the shallows. Coming to the surface he began to swim the length of the pond and back, arms cutting the water with brisk efficiency. Head down, feet threshing, Nick tried to push everything from his brain, concentrating only on swimming himself into exhaustion, too tired to think, or dream, or want.

When he pulled himself up and out of the pond, however, breathing hard, muscles trembling with overuse, he realised to his chagrin that it had all been to no avail. David was still at the forefront of his thoughts; that pull, that desperate longing, was still there. But it was useless, wasn't it? As he had already told himself, the prince did not know he existed, and even if he did - if he should attend one of Lord Mandelson's parties, say, or encounter Nick when he was out hunting - what would Nick be to him? Some anonymous peasant boy or beggar, a halfwitted kitchen drudge, that was all. No-one that the prince could have any desire to meet, or have as a friend... or lover. No. The best thing for Nick to do would be to forget the prince, as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. Dismiss him from his thoughts - forget him, before this ridiculous, pathetic yearning made his already difficult life impossibly hard...

But even as he thought these eminently sensible, common-sense thoughts, Nick knew that he could not do it. That the moment he'd seen Prince David his heart had flown out of his chest and lodged - will he, nill he - with that of the prince. David, though he knew it not, now possessed the heart, loyalty and love of a young Goldeagle scullery boy, and would hold them for the rest of Nick's life.

When a Wanderer lad or lass gave their heart, it was for ever. That was the blessing, and the curse, of Nick's blood.


	3. Chapter 3

"Boy! Skivvy! Dammit, where is that lazy, useless lump! _CinderNick!_ Where - well, _finally!_ "

Nick ran into Alastair's room, to be greeted with a vigorous box on the ear and a furious tirade, the gist of which was that when Alastair required his services, pathetic as they were, he required them now, that minute, "- not when you feel like it, ashface! Understand?" 

Head ringing from Alastair's blow, Nick recovered his balance, muttering his acknowledgment without attempting to explain that he had been helping to wrestle Charles into his magnificent new ball outfit. The pale blue watered satin jacket and breeches, cut and sewn to the very latest Blueforest Court fashion, was so precisely tailored that it had taken the combined efforts of Nick and Burnham, the journeymen's valet, to get the jacket on over Charles' broad shoulders. Over that had gone the billowing folds of Charles' blue-and-gold embroidered domino, while his mask, made to cover only the upper half of his face, was all gold with pale blue trim. Privately Nick considered the gold embroidery and ornamentation overdone, but it did suit Charles' florid good looks. 

Alastair gestured impatiently at the new jacket of forest green satin, thick with silver embroidery, which completed his own ball dress. He was already wearing the thin, tight-fitting satin knee breeches of a matching forest green, and silk stockings of a delicate cream to match the shade of his shirt, also of silk, which had falls of intricate lace at the neck and wrists. 

Nick helped to wrestle him into the jacket - not quite as hard a task as it had been with Charles - and stood back, breathing hard from the exertion. Alastair shook out the lace at his wrists and arranged the frothy fall at his neck, then turned to consider his reflection in the long mirror, with its uncannily perfect reflection, which Lord Mandelson had added to the room when Alastair had taken possession. The tall journeyman turned and twisted, examining his appearance with a coldly appraising eye, and Nick sighed a little in admiration at the fine clothes, and the brave appearance Alastair made in them. 

"Adequate, I suppose," Alastair murmured, collecting the loosely-cut fall of watered green silk that made up his domino and checking that his silver festival mask was with it. Then his glance shifted to catch Nick's in the mirror before the other could look away, and a gleam of malice entered his eyes. "So, you like my clothes, do you, Ashface? Do you think you'd make a handsome display in them? You - the scullery boy?" 

He gave a brief, harsh bark of laughter as Nick flushed and looked away. "What a sight that would be - muck and ashes and cinders all over this fine outfit, and a stammering fool inside it! It would be the joke of the evening - perhaps we should find you some clothes - and bring you along to provide the entertainment!"

Throwing his head back, he laughed even harder as Nick, stammering his denial of any desire to wear such finery - a denial which sounded unconvincing even to his own ears - began to back out of the room, his face burning.

"What is this unseemly noise? Campbell, are you ready -" Lord Mandelson's smooth tones took on a cutting edge as he appeared in his usual silent manner at the door, resplendent in deep crimson trimmed with gold and with his domino already flung about his shoulders. 

“Ah, the scullery boy. I might have known.” His voice assumed a long-suffering note. “Really, boy, one would think that one of your lowly status would appreciate the privilege of seeing your masters dress for such an important social occasion. But no... perhaps it was too much to hope for in one of such tainted blood and churlish disposition. Be off with you, back to the scullery where you belong! I have no doubt that Goodman Balls has many tasks to set you before he and the others of the household attend the Servants' Ball! Such a generous gesture from Her Grace, but then, those of Blueforest have always been _most_ aware of their obligations to their inferiors. _Such_ a generous House...”

There was a thread of sarcasm running beneath Mandelson's words at all times, but it seemed stronger all of a sudden, and despite his hurt at his master's words - and his self-directed anger at letting them affect him - Nick was sure he caught an exchange of glances between the lord and his journeyman. A swift, glinting glance which held knowledge, excitement... satisfaction? Anticipation? Something of all those, Nick decided as he retreated hastily to the kitchen, wondering what it all signified. 

His ponderings did not last long, however, for in the kitchen the cook was awaiting him - none too patiently. And for one of Balls's intemperate disposition, that meant an immediate clout about the head for Nick, strong enough to knock him sprawling, and a furious tirade on the scullery boy's many faults of character before detailing the many tasks Nick was to finish while Balls was escorting his consort, the housekeeper Madam Cooper, to the Servants' Ball. Since Bryant the butler, Madam Cooper, and even Valet Burnham had already given Nick their own lists of tasks they required him to complete before their return on the morrow, Nick knew he would get little sleep that night.

Perhaps it was as well, though, he reflected resignedly as he began on his tasks, sore and aching from the chef's chastisement. With so much to do, surely he would have little time to think of the grand festivities? Of the fine food and magnificent clothes, the wonderful music and dancing and games, and everyone having so much fun...

… and Prince David. What would he be doing over the next few weeks, Nick wondered, as he scrubbed and polished and cleaned. Would he show off his horsemanship in the tourneys? Or take part in the light-hearted sporting competitions that were such a feature of the Midsummer celebrations? Or perhaps he would spend his time dancing with some young man who would strike his fancy, or take his turn at the archery butts, or...

… it wasn't until the black-and-white tiles of the entrance hall blurred before his eyes and he felt a warm drop of liquid run down his cheek to fall on the bony, calloused hands engaged in polishing those tiles to a mirror-like gloss that Nick realised he was crying. Quietly, hopelessly, the tears fell, and Nick sat back on his heels and scrubbed fiercely at his cheeks, trying to stop the unsteady whimpers that were trying to escape from the tight hollowness in his chest. What good were tears, after all? 

But - Oh, he would so have loved to go! To see David, if only from a distance - to wear fine clothes, and dance, and talk, and play... to be, once again, if only for a night... someone. To be Nick, merchant's ward and apprentice, not Cindernick the halfwit pot boy and Wanderer brat... 

Smearing the back of his hand across his eyes, Nick hoisted his cleaning gear back to the scullery. He dashed some cold water on his aching face and burning eyes and with a leaden heart turned to view the vegetables that the cook had ordered him to peel, chop and prepare for the following day's meals.

“Ah, no...” he whispered in dismay. There were so many of them!

Nick stared at the mounds of roots, the piles of green-leafed vegetables and the baskets of fruit and bit his lip. He would never be able to prepare all this, and if he didn't - Nick's shoulders twitched, as if he could already feel the cook's heavy stick laying about them. Or maybe Balls would ask Butler Bryant to give him a proper beating, with that evil knotted rope of his, or, or even, if he was really unlucky, get Chief Groom Brown to take a horsewhip to him...

Nick set his jaw. So he might not be able to complete all the tasks laid out for him - it made no difference. He'd do as much as he could, as much as anyone could. At least, then, he'd know that he'd done his best. It would make no difference to his masters, but - it would mean something to him!

Grimly he filled the largest pot with fresh cold water, took it across to the biggest pile of vegetables, and folding down onto his heels, began peeling and slicing in earnest. He was almost glad, somewhere in the nethermost reaches of his thoughts, that he would be working his hardest tonight of all nights. There would be little chance to let his mind go wandering northwards, to the magnificent castle, to all the wonderful festivities going on there... and to Prince David.

“Dear me, have I come to the wrong house? Awfully sorry, must have taken a wrong turn at -”

Blinking, Nick lifted his head at the light tenor voice and stared at the slim man in the strangely cut, light coloured suit, standing in the centre of the kitchen and staring around with arched eyebrows and a confused expression on his long face. 

“Well, this is a problem! I could have sworn I remembered the way...” the stranger chattered on as Nick came to his feet and tried to find his voice.

“May I... may I help you, sir? Whose household are you seeking?” 

The stranger's eyebrows rose at Nick's carefully-courteous enquiry, and the man's confused, slightly harried expression melted into a quick smile. “Why, my friend Ashdown's, of course! It's his ward's coming-of-age this Midsummer, you know, and I promised Paddy faithfully that I'd drop by and... Dear me, what's the matter, my boy?”

For Nick had found to his horror that hearing his guardian's name so unexpectedly had struck straight to his heart, and his eyes had filled with tears that were threatening to spill over right under this stranger's gaze – biting down hard on his treacherously-quivering lip, Nick looked hastily down at the floor and took a couple of deep, would-be controlling breaths.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said eventually, fighting to keep his voice steady, “This is – or was – Master Ashdown's residence, but – but Master Ashdown is,” fiercely Nick swallowed against the dreadful lump in his throat, “Master Ashdown is... dead. This house now belongs to – to... his cousin and heir.”

Some deep, unnamed instinct prevented Nick saying Lord Mandelson's name aloud. Wizards could hear their name spoken from many miles away and listen in to what was said about them, or so it was said; Nick had no desire to test that assertion for himself.

The stranger's face was pale and shocked. “Paddy... dead? Surely I'm not so late as that? I know you mortals are short-lived, but -” sighing, he shook his head, then fixed Nick with a sharp gaze, contradicting the vague meanderings of his speech as Nick attempted to explain. 

“Lost at sea? Master Merchant Ashdown, who has friends among the merpeople and has sailed all the world's oceans in his time? Goodness me! No, no, the idea is preposterous. Preposterous!” 

Vigorously the stranger shook his head, displacing his thin, fine hair to reveal slim ears that possessed a slight but definite point at their tips, and Nick's shoulders straightened a little. Why, this was a Fae! His guardian had had one of the Twilight Folk for a friend! A Fae would be a far better judge of his guardian's fate than any town gossip – and a Fae, moreover, would be largely immune even to a wizard of Lord Mandelson's powers. 

“You mark my words, young human, your Master Ashdown will return – probably when you least expect him. That's his way,” the Fae was chattering on, and Nick nodded slowly, the small, tentative hope that he had held to for so long no longer quite so small or so tentative. His guardian might yet return! He could – he would – still hope, he vowed silently.

“In the meantime,” the Fae was continuing, in that odd, discursive way of his, “Can you tell me where I might find Master Ashdown's young ward? I promised Paddy, you know, that I'd drop by. Out at play, is he? I've noticed that young humans seem to enjoy that sort of thing.”

Nick hung his head, his face burning, and muttered a reply that was inaudible even to his own ears. 

“What was that?” queried the stranger sharply, his gaze suddenly sharp and acutely intelligent. 

“I – I am Master Ashdown's ward. At, at least – I was... Now I'm the, the pot boy.” Nick stared at his bare, grimy feet. It sounded ridiculous, he thought dismally. Why should this Fae, who by his own admission did not have much knowledge or understanding of humans, believe a nameless, ragged servant boy? 

“They... said Master Ash – Master Ashdown indulged me, gave me inflated ideas above my,” Nick swallowed, “Above my... station. That I wasn't worth the time and effort of training as a merchant's apprentice, as I was bound to fail... that I wasn't worth anything, and was lucky to be – to be kept on as a servant, and should be thankful for it. 

“Because I am of the Wandering Folk.” 

“Well that is uncommonly dense, even for humans!” was the brisk retort, and one long-fingered hand pushed Nick's stubborn chin up until he was forced to meet a pair of kind brown eyes.

“Master Ashdown thought a great deal of you, my boy. He loved you dearly, of course – that hardly needs mentioning – but he also believed in you. 'Mark my words,' he used to say, 'My ward will go far. I long for the day when I see him spread his wings! He'll fly high, that lad!'”

Nick choked, his eyes spilling over as the pain he had carried for so long broke loose, and feeling the Fae's arms close about him, he buried his head in his godfather's shoulder and wept. Harsh, difficult sobs that had long been held under rigid control finally tore themselves free in great gasps, the tight knots of grief and loneliness and fear dissolving in the warmth of being held close and the comforting tones of a warm voice murmuring gentle reassurance in his ear. And most of all, in the knowledge that here, finally, he had – oh, miracle of miracles! - he had a friend. 

Finally it passed, as all such storms do, and Nick lifted his head, blinking eyes red and sore with weeping, but feeling light and free and strangely tranquil. His godfather arched one eyebrow at him, quirking a smile, and Nick found himself returning it – a wavering, wobbly, unpracticed affair, but still a smile.

The Fae nodded in satisfaction. “Better! Good!”

Lifting one hand, he brushed it lightly across Nick's face, the long fingers trailing tiny golden motes of light behind them, and where they passed the aftereffects of Nick's tears... disappeared. Soreness cured and swollen eyes eased, Nick lifted once-more bright eyes to his godfather's smiling countenance and said simply, “Thank you.”

The Fae waved a careless hand. “Think nothing of it, young man, nothing at all! Glad to be of help! Now -” he stepped back and looked around the great, stone-flagged kitchen, “What caused the great outcry which called me here?”

Nick blinked in confusion. “A... cry? I don't think -”

“Oh, not out loud!” The Fae hastened to assure him. “No voiced call would have reached me! But there was such a cry of despair and need from your heart! It was that which fetched me, you see,” he rambled on, “I was busy about a most complicated affair in the Twilit Lands – really, the _mess_ those Dryads will get into given half a chance, the Greenleaf queen was at her wit's end – and had no thought of visiting here. No idea that the time had passed so quickly! It's astonishing how quickly events come to pass in the mortal realms...”

Then he fixed Nick with his sharp but kindly gaze. “However. I am here now, and you are my great friend Ashdown's ward, to whom I owe my best efforts, so let us be about it! High time – past time – that I begin to fulfil my duties as your godfather, my lad. You have long been alone and heartsore, that much is clear, but tonight some extra grief or desire has overtaken you, is that not so?

“What is the desire of your heart, Nick?”

Caught up in the rambling torrent of words, Nick could only stammer at the sudden question. The desire of his heart -! Oh, he could not - _dared_ not – say! Look at him! Scrawny, dirty drudge that he was, how  dared he think of the Prince, so far out of Nick's world that he might as well be out among the stars... 

“Oh, I see.”

The Fae's voice, all at once, was very gentle. 

“Your heart has been awakened. Humans!” he shook his head. “Such pain and confusion over such a simple matter! But then, human loves, human passions... they possess a power that we Fae have never understood. Certainly they bear little resemblance to the bed games of my own folk!

“So who is he, this human who calls to your heart with such power?”

The question was direct, and Nick responded as simply.

“Prince David of Blueforest.”

There was no outburst of scorn or mockery, as Nick half-expected – indeed, the only visible reaction was a slow nod.

“And this... Prince David; does he return your desire?”

“He does not know me at all!” blurted Nick miserably. “And I – truly, I do not wish that he did, or that he should return my feelings. He is his own man, and should find his own heart... he is far beyond me, I know that. I do not desire the impossible! But... oh, just to see him, perhaps talk to him, or – or do him some service....

"And now the Midsummer Festival has begun, and my guardian and his journeymen are there, all the young people of the town are invited -”

“- but not you?”

Nick hesitated. “The invitation that came to Goldeagle included all the young people of an age to be looking to marry,” he said carefully. “There was no mention of, of rank, or wealth. Only of age. But – oh, it is foolishness! The Midsummer Festival is three weeks of hunts and soirees and contests, of fairs and dancing and tourneys...Tonight's great masked ball is the first festival event, and it is being held in the Castle Torai ballroom! It will be so wonderful, everyone in their finest clothes, the best musicians playing and everyone trying to dance their best, to catch the Prince's attention...” Nick sighed longingly. 

“I saw the clothes that my master had ordered for himself and his journeymen,” he added after a moment. They were... magnificent. Alistair's suit! And, and Charles'! How could I, how could anyone, look finer?”

He gave a small, resigned shrug, then attempted a smile. “I – it will be fine. Really.” he said, trying to convince himself as much as the Fae. “I know, it was... only a dream. To see the Prince just once more. But -” he tried to smile again, “I really do have more than enough to do here before they all return in the morning! See, all the vegetables and fruit that need preparing -” 

Nick had turned as he spoke, to wave his hand at the piled food awaiting his attention. Now he stopped speaking, his mouth hanging open in stunned amazement. Arrayed in precise, neat stacks lay all the vegetables and the fruit which Nick had expected to spend the night working on. Peeled, chopped, sliced, diced, soaking in water, laid on freshly-scrubbed table tops... everything was ready for the cook and his helpers. Even the piles of wood and coal and kindling had been replenished, and the jar of tapers for lighting the cookfires had been filled to capacity!

“Well, you can hardly go to the ball if you have all that to attend to, can you?” came the Fae's voice, a smile clearly audible in his voice. Nick began to stammer his thanks, only to be waved into silence.

“No no no. I told you that I am your godfather, young man. It is time - past time - that I began to act like it! Now...”

The Fae tapped his long chin thoughtfully. “The hour is late, but not impossibly so. You will have to travel swiftly to reach – aha!” he smiled in sudden triumph, “My own conveyance will transport you, in the blink of an eye! It is of the Twilit Lands, and cares nothing for simple human notions of distance, or time!”

“You – you mean it's not too late? I can still go, truly? Oh, thank you! Thank you, godfather, so much -”

Nick's face was alight with joy – then his eyes dimmed. “Um... I don't want to seem ungrateful... but – what am I to wear? I - I only have these...” He gestured at his ragged, grimy shirt and breeches, and catching a glimpse of his calloused and work-stained hands, flushed bright red and hurriedly hid them behind his back. 

“Perhaps I had best stay here after all,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. “No outfit, no matter how fine, can transform a... a pot boy into someone fit to attend the Torai Court.”

There was a snort of derision from his godfather. “Boy, you are in the presence of a Fae, of the tribe of Air! Transformation lies at the very heart of our power, and I am among the great ones of my clan. Now -”

Rubbing at his jaw, seemingly deep in thought, the Fae circled an increasingly-nervous Nick. He lifted the boy's stubborn chin, moving his face from side to side; a tape measure was produced from somewhere and stretched across Nick's shoulders, then his arms, his chest, his legs, and even round the boy's neck, the Fae muttering to himself all the while.

Finally the Fae stood back and raised his arms, gesturing theatrically. “Be still now,” he said in a firm tone. “This will take concentration!”

With a shout of command in a language that rang with arcane power, the Fae swept his arms down and forward like the wings of a great bird. Two great sheets of glowing golden light leapt from his outstretched hands, wrapping round Nick in a glow of sunshine which held all the scents of a summer meadow. Closing his eyes, Nick breathed deep, sighing with delight as he remembered the day, and the place, where he had first seen the Prince...

There was a shout of “So mote it be!” and a sharp clap! of hands. The light and the scents vanished, and Nick slowly opened his eyes.

“Did – did it work?”

His godfather was smiling. “See for yourself!”

Suddenly there was a long, shimmering oval in front of Nick, providing him with a perfect head-to-toe reflection. His jaw dropped.

“Is – is that me?” 

The youth in the mirror was... handsome! More handsome than Alastair, even! Unconsciously Nick felt himself straighten, tilting his chin and shaking out the delicate falls of lace at his wrists, and watching the boy in the mirror do the same. He was all in white – white satin breeches, a fine lawn shirt with delicate lace, frothy as sea-foam, at wrists and neck, and an intricately embroidered waistcoat. The jacket – fitted so finely to his shoulders that Nick could see every move and shift of his muscles under the fine cloth – was, like the waistcoat, trimmed and finished with an exquisite filigree of embroidery in the purest gold. His stockings too were extravagantly patterned in gold, as were the heeled, pure white court shoes, which were fitted with diamond glass in the heels. Gravely Nick lifted one long foot and turned it from side to side, watching the light flash and glitter in the stones. Then he looked back at his reflection. His own eyes, looking very blue against his tanned skin, gazed back at him, from a face at once cleaner, thinner, and somehow older than the one he occasionally saw reflected in water or in Alastair's mirror. While his wildly scruffy mane of sun-bleached chestnut hair had been tamed and powdered and gathered into a neat tail at the nape of his neck, where it was tied with a golden ribbon. 

“I... don't look very much like a pot boy now, do I.”

“No,” agreed his godfather, the satisfaction in his voice matching Nick's. “You don't. Will that do, do you think?”

“Oh yes,” said Nick solemnly. “I think it will.” Then his bubbling delight broke free and he flung his arms around his godfather. “Will it do! It's wonderful! Thank you, godfather, thank you so much! This is – I can't-”

Unexpectedly, he found himself lost for words as the Fae, smiling, gently disentangled himself and patted him a little awkwardly on one shoulder.

“There, there. I'm pleased you like it... and now I really think you should be going! Come, I'll introduce you to your transport. This way!”

Outside in the courtyard a most peculiar... carriage?... met Nick's wondering eyes. It was square, low to the ground – its roof did not even reach Nick's head! - clearly made of some kind of metal, and as yellow as a daffodil. It stood four-square on strange, squat, round black wheels, and although Nick could see two doors on the side facing him, and large windows all around the odd, stubby thing giving him a clear view of the inside and the comfortable looking seats at the rear, there was no sign of a driver in the front seat, or indeed of horses to pull it.

“She needs no horses,” his godfather informed him, patting the roof affectionately. “Nor does she require a driver, really, though she lets me pretend. This is my – carriage, I suppose you would call her.”

Leaning towards the front, the Fae conducted a swift, one-sided conversation in a language that Nick did not recognise, then took Nick's hand and placed it on the roof, telling him to pat it gently. Nick complied, and was sure he felt the inhumanly flat, smooth metal warm and then flex under his touch like the skin of a horse. 

“There! I have introduced you, and she knows you are a friend of mine. You need only tell her where you wish to go and she will take you there, in the blink of an eye, as I said before. Remember she has no concept of time – it is for you to tell her at what hour you wish to arrive, and when you wish to leave simply clap your hands together three times and she will appear.”

“Oh!” Nick exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “Godfather – this is a masked ball! I will need -”

“- a mask and domino? Of course,” said the other, calmly handing them over although Nick was sure he had not had them earlier. The domino was a simple diamond of cream satin, but the mask was a beautifully-crafted festival half-mask of some rigid white material, trimmed with feathers and decorated with gold filigree, and fitted exactly to the contours of Nick's head. “The unmasking is at midnight – you must leave before then, or you will be discovered. Ah! That reminds me.”

Diving into one capacious pocket, the Fae brought out a small gold snuffbox with a blue-enamelled lid, passed one hand over it, muttering something under his breath, and held it out. Puzzled, Nick took it, then nearly dropped it as the enamel of the lid flared with light as soon as his fingers closed around it. Somehow he kept hold, and after that initial flare the light settled to a steady glow, transforming the rather dark enamel work of a golden Phoenix leaping skyward into a thing of rich jewel tones and glowing pastels. At the same time, the dull melancholy at the back of his head, the constriction in his chest and the chains on his memory - all those bars on his soul which Lord Mandelson's crystal-headed cane had set within him – faded almost to nothingness.

“Good,” said his godfather as Nick blinked and attempted to say something past the relief singing through him, but failed. “It's taken. They really can be dreadfully temperamental... but there! That will prevent your master noticing your presence at the ball tonight – for as long as you keep it with you. We can't have him interrupting and sending you home, can we! Just remember, my boy,” the Fae was suddenly serious, 

“That snuffbox will only hide you for as long as you have it with you. Don't offer it to anyone else and don't put it down somewhere and forget it, because if you do that wizard will spot you in an instant! I can sense his presence here even now, though of course as long as I'm here he won't be able to scry anything out of the ordinary. So don't lose it, whatever you do!

“Now – off you go! And remember – the unmasking is at midnight!”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The Great Ballroom of Castle Torai was a-dazzle with thousands of massed candles, the light spells of Torai's Court wizard and his apprentices combining to augment the gentle glow until the huge, high-ceilinged chamber seemed bathed in the warm sunlight of midsummer's day.

Chief Wizard Bercow had just completed one of his favourite small works - the sun of a warm spring day mixed with the delicate scent of violets - with the particular mental twist which meant it would remain attuned to the romantic court lady who had requested it. With the slightly theatrical gesture and intoned 'So mote it be!' that was characteristic of his work, he turned to observe the main ballroom.

Prince David, resplendent in sapphire blue and silver with touches of filigree gold, was approaching. His expression, under the delicate silver mask which barely covered his eyes, was - to those who knew him well - a mixture of hunted and harassed which had Bercow fighting to control his features. The prince was not enjoying himself, the Wizard knew, but he wasn't entirely sympathetic. David's life had been full of privilege and a certain amount of indulgence for a sunny-natured and generous boy, and although no-one would ever consider him to be spoiled or arrogant, he was nevertheless perhaps - in Bercow's view - a little too accustomed to the world going the way he wished. Finding a consort was part of the Heir's duties, and really, the Duchess was making it as easy as possible for the young man... 

Bercow smiled brilliantly at the prince as he approached, and David's face eased into a slightly more relaxed grin.

"Help me please, John, I need rescuing for a little!" The prince made a slight movement of his head behind him, discreetly indicating a tall man standing a few yards away, richly garbed in forest green and silver. "Talk to me, and make it look important and secret and 'Do Not Disturb'!"

"Why, your Highness, whatever is the matter! Are you being hunted?"

Bercow's lips were quirking and David, seeing the suppressed grin, answered it with one of his own before saying more seriously, "Well, yes... but I expected that. There's just something about that one... he makes me feel uneasy. A little too calculating, a little too..." David's voice trailed off into silence as Bercow's eyes sharpened, seeing the genuine discomfort behind the Court polish. Then the prince shrugged. "Ah, it's probably nothing! Just someone desperate to marry up in the world, I suppose!"

Bercow's eyes crinkled, "But my prince," he said, tongue firmly in his cheek, "This is a masked ball, how could anyone know which one - out of all these handsome folk - is Prince David?"

Seeng the suppressed merriment in the sorceror's eyes, David gave him a stern look. "Everyone knows who I am, as you know perfectly well. There are no secrets at Court, and all the guests from beyond the court will have made it their business to discover my identity as quickly as possible. Who wants to waste their time romancing the wrong man?" 

Bercow raised his eyebrows at the sudden thread of bitter cynicism in the Prince's tones, and David, seeing his reaction, flushed a little and tried to laugh it off. "I'm sorry. I just get a little tired of being the target for all the match-making mamas and papas. I can't help feeling like... some merchant's prize item, on display in the market-place!"

"Not everyone is chasing after you, you know," Bercow pointed out, a little sternly. "There are plenty of youngsters here who have no interest in you at all! Like young Osborne, for instance. He and the Lady Frances are perfectly happy in one another's company. There are many other young couples like that, and others who are here purely to enjoy themselves and have no desire for romance!"

David's fair skin flushed red as he heard the reprimand in the sorceror's tones. "I know," he sighed. "I apologise for my comments, Wizard. It's just that the last three men I danced with were very determined to, um... get to know the Prince. And already knew a disturbing amount about my likes and dislikes and interests and hobbies! They must have gone to a great deal of effort to discover all that about me, and I find that level of - attention - somewhat intimidating."

"The gentleman in green and silver - is he one of these 'hunters'?"

"Oh yes," said David. "And before him there was an uncultured brute in pale blue and gold - lots of gold, positively dripping with it in fact - and before _him_ there was an older man, very polite, softly spoken - and really very unpleasant. I had the feeling he was studying me as if I was under a magnifying glass on a table somewhere! There was nothing romantic about that encounter at all."

David wriggled his shoulders in discomfort at the memory.

"That does sound odd," agreed the sorceror. "What was he wearing - this older man?"

"Claret and old gold. Beautiful clothes of the best Imperial workmanship - to show all our provincial tailors how old-fashioned and behind the times they are, no doubt," David added, a little sharply, and Bercow snorted.

"You really did take a dislike to the gentleman, didn't you? Hm, it seems you've been unlucky in your recent encounters. Perhaps if we took a stroll together out to the smaller ante-room where the less confident guests tend to congregate...? It would be a shame if you missed out on meeting your future consort tonight because he felt too shy to enter the main ballroom and you never went looking beyond the obvious!"

"Now that is an excellent idea!" said David heartily, and he accompanied Bercow's short, stalwart figure in its easy drift towards the great double doors at the nearest end of the crowded ballroom, nodding and smiling to the throng surrounding them as he went.

The ante-room was not only smaller - it was considerably less crowded, save for the long table at one side groaning with every variety of delicacy for the delectation of the guests. The prince felt hungry as soon as he saw the delicious-looking spread, and with a word of grateful farewell to Wizard Bercow, he lengthened his stride and made determinedly for the party meats.

Collecting a clean plate from one of the attendants - with a brief smile and enquiry as to the well-being of the woman's young son - David began to put together a quick meal, realising with part of his mind that no-one was taking the slightest bit of notice of him and that therefore, in this room at least, he was genuinely incognito and feeling much more relaxed as a result.

David was never sure, afterwards, quite how it had happened. He had reached for the utensil to serve himself some slices of fresh-roasted venison... Hadn't he? There had been a burst of merry voices and he had glanced their way - for a moment, just for a moment... and his hand, instead of clasping the smooth coolness of the cutlery, had wrapped itself around the warmth of another's. Another man's hand. There had been a soft gasp, and he had looked around to meet lively, sparkling blue eyes, wide with surprise behind their ball mask... Eyes that looked both young and kind, though they were currently fixed on his in fearful apology.

"I - I'm so sorry, your Highness, I -oh."

Below the mask David saw an embarrassed flush creeping over the tanned, youthful features. "We're not supposed to know who you are - I really am sorry, I, I -"

Stammering and red with mortification by now, the young stranger abruptly let go of the serving tongs and tried to back away from the table, only to be brought to an abrupt stop. David had not released his hand...

Enchanted, intrigued - David wasn't quite sure what he was feeling. He tightened his grasp a little, pulling this new person towards him as that strange warm tingling where their hands met grew stronger.

"Don't go!" He found himself saying hurriedly, absently letting his empty plate drop to the table while his words tumbled over themselves in his desire to get them out. "Please, I - please don't go yet! I mean - yes, I'm the prince, and I'd really like to, to..."

He trailed into silence and reluctantly let go of the other's hand, gazing a little helplessly at this young, lightly-built stranger in the beautiful - Fae-made - ball clothes.

"Ah, here you are, unknown sir! Might I have the pleasure of the next dance?"

David knew that voice. Suppressing a groan he turned to face the tall gentleman in forest green and silver whom he had thought he'd escaped.

"Well, I..." he began, then inspiration struck. "My regrets, sir, but I have promised the next dance to this gentleman -" hastily he grabbed at the slim stranger's hand and was encouraged at the welcoming squeeze he received, "- and I fear we must hurry or we shall miss the start of the next set!"

David flashed a pleading glance at his companion, who was clearly quick-witted for all his shyness, because he responded promptly, "Indeed, sir, I hear the music starting - we must go!" 

The tall man was opening his mouth to respond - not entirely politely, if the angry flush visible below his mask was any guide - but David's young companion had set off towards the Great Ballroom even as he'd answered, tugging David along with him. Sending a falsely-apologetic smile back over his shoulder, David happily lengthened his stride until he was walking next to his new companion, their hands still linked.

"Is - is he following?" came the apprehensive murmur from David's left.

"No, no. It's fine." David said, after a quick unobtrusive check to their rear. "Do you know who that man is?"

"I.... yes. He came with two others. They are all from the Imperial Court, though they now reside in Goldeagle."

Intrigued by the tinge of fear in the other's voice, David drew breath to request more details - then they reached the ballroom and at the sight of the swirling, colourful couples out on the mirrored floor he forgot everything except his sudden fierce wish to lose himself in that great, happy crowd, to clasp his companion in his arms, feel that slim hard body against his own and just... dance. 

With an exuberant laugh of sheer joy, David tugged on the strong hand wrapped around his own, slid his other hand round his companion's narrow waist and spun them both out onto the floor. 

Music. Light and colour, laughter and dance. The scents of expensive perfumes and delicate flowers swirling through the summer air, the sound of laughter and merry conversation, of happy couples and groups of friends, and over all the glow of candlelight and the shimmer of magic, mixing all the colour and light and merriment into a golden confection of joy...

David had never been so happy. He wanted to laugh, to sing, to caper about like a mad thing and shout out loud with sheer delight. He wanted to curl into a shadowed corner and whisper secrets, to feel his companion's body against his own, to lose himself in the warmth of those gentle blue eyes... 

"Are - are you well, unknown sir?"

Roused from his dreaming near-trance as they moved and stepped and swung about other dancing couples, David smiled in reassurance - a smile so broad that it was very nearly a grin. "I am well. I am very well, truly! I was thanking the fates for my good fortune in meeting ... you."

His dance partner flushed bright pink under his tan. "Why, I th - thank you, unknown s-"

"My name is David," the prince interrupted gently. "I am sure that everyone here knows my identity, as indeed do you, so let us not continue with a foolish pretence of ignorance! Please, call me by my name. What may I call you, though, my delightful unknown?"

His partner flushed again, and ducked his head in brief acknowledgement. "You do me honour, my prince... David. My name..." There was a quick look around at the nearby dancers, so swift that David barely caught it, and then a lowering of that light, husky voice which sent tingles down David's spine every time he heard it. "My name - is Nick."

"Nick," repeated David quietly. The music came to a close, completing the dance, and under cover of the spontaneous applause which followed David grasped Nick's hand and indicated the great glass doors lining one side of the ballroom, flung open to catch the evening breeze. 

"Shall we go out into the gardens? It will be less crowded, and our court wizards have arranged for plenty of lights. We're not likely to fall into any of the ponds or fountains! - unless we wish to, of course."

David's comment drew a laugh, as he'd hoped - a sudden, husky choke of merriment which set David giggling in his turn. 

The pair descended the steps from the broad terrace in front of the ballroom, to stroll hand in hand along curving paths of jewel-coloured stones and scented herbs. They wandered under trees of scented blossom, past fountains lit with magical, multi-coloured lights and beds of night-scented flowers, through moonlit vistas of perfectly-manicured loveliness. 

David saw little of the gardens he had known all his life. All his attention was on Nick - wonderful Nick, walking by his side, now talking, now falling silent, his hand warm about David's own.

As they were passing a shadowed nook in a hedge-lined pathway, David glanced up and down the path, then stepped sideways, bringing Nick with him, and with a soft, enquiring murmur, put one hand under Nick's chin, turning the other's face towards his own, and leaned in.

Nick responded eagerly, with a soft, happy murmur of his own. His mouth opened willingly under David's, one hand coming up to bury itself in the Prince's hair and the other sliding around David's waist to pull him even closer, even as David's arms wrapped themselves fiercely about Nick's slimness until he could feel Nick's body, warm against his from neck to waist...

... And lower. Both men became aware of the other's growing excitement at the same time, and reluctantly, breathing hard, their hearts thundering in their chests, the two eased apart. Then they simply stood for a while, each lost in the other's eyes.

Eventually they turned to continue down the pathway, content to walk in silence, arms about each other's waists, until they found an ornamental garden bench placed to look out across a wide lily pond to the golden lights of the palace. Here they sat down, and David's head dropped to Nick's shoulder - Nick, the prince realised, was a little taller than himself, which made his shoulder the perfect height for David to rest his head... he snuggled a little closer, rubbing his head contentedly against the other's shoulder, then lifted his head to snatch a quick kiss which Nick willingly returned.

They kissed and cuddled for a little, then David said reflectively, "It's galling to have to admit it, but Grandmother was right after all. I shall have to put up with a great deal of 'I told you so!' at midnight. What with Grandmother, and George, and my parents -" 

He gave a huge, overplayed sigh. "The things I do for love!"

"M-midnight? Why midnight?"

David was feeling too contented to hear the sudden, harsh edge of tension in Nick's voice.

"Why, at the unmasking of course! I've found my love -" David paused briefly to give Nick a squeeze, "- and now you must be formally presented to the Duchess as my prospective consort. That's why - Nick, what's the matter?"

For Nick had straightened up, pulling away from him. Now he turned to face the confused prince. "David. my - my prince..." He hesitated, clearly searching for words, and David's heart plummeted into his boots.

"Is, is it not love, then, for you?" he said in a small voice. "Is it all just... moonlight, and music?"

"No, no! Don't ever think that! But - David, I am of the Wandering Folk. Your grandmother, your people - they would never accept one of my blood as your consort! I'm sorry, I should have thought, should have warned you...but it was so wonderful, being with you, and - and..."

Nick looked away, biting his lip, and David, with a muttered exclamation, grabbed him and held him close.

"Nick - oh, Nick, my love, who has been telling you tales? So you are of the Wandering Folk; it matters not! My grandmother will not care two hoots, and neither will any of the Court or the people, believe me! They will be too relieved that I have found a consort to care one whit about his birth!" 

Nick stared at the prince, desperately hoping that he spoke truly. With a muttered exclamation David wrenched off his mask so that Nick could see his entire face and repeated more quietly, but with a driving sincerity that would not be denied,

"I swear to you, my one and only love, that no-one - _no-one_ \- will care what your birth is, or whether you are the son of a, a beggar or a baron! All that will matter to them is that I have finally chosen the one I wish to spend my life with. My grandmother's consort was but a journeyman thatcher when they first met, you know."

Nick hesitated, then, slowly, his hands moved to his head. The beautiful white and silver mask was removed to reveal a boyish, open-featured face from which Nick's blue eyes gazed at David with more than a touch of wariness. 

David stared back, drinking in the handsome features and gentle eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he breathed, one hand coming up to caress Nick's cheek. Nick turned his head to press against David's touch, his eyes fluttering shut only to fly open again at the prince's soft words.

“Ah, no – no,” he muttered, his face burning, “It is you that is the beautiful one, my prince. You are so wonderful, what can you see in, in someone like me -”

Hushing him, David gently laid one narrow, aristocratic hand across Nick's lips, smiling lovingly at the other's spluttered objections. 

“We are each seeing the other with the eyes of love,” he said softly. “And that is as it should be...” and coming to his feet, he drew Nick in for a kiss.

A little later, when they had once again drawn apart with ruffled hair and kiss-swollen mouths, both men flushed and bright-eyed and breathing hard, David said regretfully, with a glance upwards to where the midsummer moon hung huge and warmly silver in the star-strewn sky, “We really must return to the ballroom, my love. It is close on midnight.”

Nick bit his lip, then nodded reluctantly and was just about to re-don his mask when his eyes widened and he gasped, face suddenly sheet-white as he flinched away.

He was looking in the direction of the path from the palace down which he and the prince had strolled earlier, hand in hand, and David swung around to see what had given his love such a shock, his hand slipping from Nick's.

Just emerging from the scented depths of the perfumed walk, chatting desultorily between themselves, were three men. In the moonlight David recognised the figures immediately as the men from Goldeagle whose company he had found so unpleasant back before he had met his Nick. Back when his world had been so different, a bare few hours ago...

Muttering a few short words under his breath, David reached out behind him for Nick's hand, intending to retreat hastily around the pond to return to the ballroom another way. He did not think the men had spotted he and his companion yet – they had made no move in his direction, and he and Nick were in the heavy gloom under the trees, away from the light of the moon and the coloured lights adorning the fountains and the pond – but he really did not want to meet the trio again, and he was sure that Nick also had his own good reasons for avoiding them.

But no warm, strong hand slipped into his, and when he looked around, retreating further into the shadows as he did so, Nick... was gone.

Disappeared.

With growing urgency, the prince cast about, keeping one eye on the men standing a few yards away, clustered in a small group and talking quietly amongst themselves while David, increasingly frantic, stealthily quartered the shade under the trees. He did not dare call out, he could only move quietly, hands outstretched, trying to guess which way Nick had gone and fighting his growing conviction that Nick had not merely hidden himself in the shadows. He had gone. Slipped away, fled.... from those men? Surely that was it. He had run – not from David, but from those three men! It was they who had frightened his love away, David was sure of it...

… and how would David ever find him again?

The prince took one more step, and stumbled slightly as his foot struck an object lying unseen on the ground at his feet. Bending, he picked it up, identifying it as soon as he touched it.

Nick's ball mask. The beautiful, Fae-made half-mask that had fitted so perfectly to Nick's features that surely it had been crafted especially for him...

Slowly, gently, David placed it over his own face, breathing deep of the faint scent of hair powder and Nick which still clung to its gentle curves. He could not settle it into position on his own head at all, and with a soft sigh and a murmur of Nick's name, he lowered it again and held it close. 

“Come to me again if you can, love,” he whispered to the air. “But if you cannot... it matters not whether it is enchantment or human villainy that has made you flee, and might prevent your return. I will find you again. I swear it.

“I _will_ find you!”

Lifting the mask, he kissed it reverentially to seal his promise, then held it up in front of his eyes, a sudden idea sparking. It had fit Nick _as if it had been made especially for him._ Of course it had. It was Fae-made, it would fit itself to no-one else.

If Nick was unable to return, why then David would seek him out. And this mask would help him. No matter where Nick was, hidden somewhere, or concealed under enchanted guise, or even perhaps held captive - Court Wizard Bercow could use the mask to trace him. And once found, this same mask could be used to prove his identity!

David's grip on the mask tightened, clutching it to himself with even greater determination as a flame of bright hope – that fierce, sharp-edged hope which is close to despair – burst into desperate life. 

David would never let that glow fail, he vowed to himself. No matter how long it took, he would keep that flame alive in his heart, and he would never, ever, cease his searching.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The house on Cowley Street was quiet, the rooms empty and still. Then a scrape of sound shivered through the air as the door to the yard eased open and a ragged figure slipped through, breathing hard.

Nick turned his head, listening intently, but could hear no hint of movement. Satisfied that he had succeeded in returning before the rest of the household, he abstracted his rag of blanket from its hiding place behind a store cupboard, wrapped it around his shoulders, and padded across the kitchen floor to curl up on the hearth where a little warmth still lingered. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but he was happy to lie quietly, remembering the ball and thinking of David, until his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted gently into a doze...

… only to be jerked awake, heart thudding, by a coldly malicious voice which wound itself through his bright visions of what had been, hissing menace into his dreams.

Shaking, Nick sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees in a scared, apprehensive huddle of limbs. It was no good. Much as he might want to avoid thinking about Lord Mandelson, about his cold gaze, viciously cutting tongue and delicate, precise cruelty to those, like Nick, in his power – he could not afford to. Because that evening it had finally become clear to Nick that Mandelson and his journeymen were planning something. Knowing the three as he did, Nick was also sure that any plot would have been carefully put together with every possible outcome taken into consideration. And – there would be devastating consequences for their target. 

Nick was very much afraid that the target of that plot was Prince David, heir apparent to the Duchy of Blueforest. 

Nick's shivering increased and he dropped his head on to his knees, screwing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to block his scurrying thoughts. David... lovely, kind, beautiful David... in thrall to a dark wizard. All that warmth and generosity, all that innocent optimism and delight in the world and in his place in it, corrupted into darkness and hardened into selfishness and arrogant pride... oh yes, Nick knew – all of Goldeagle knew – how dark wizards operated. The town had narrowly escaped the thrall of such a bare few generations before, and the stories of Dark Lord Owen and his corrupting influence and thirst for power were commonplace. The tale of how the town's very own Chief Alderman, Master Merchant Steel, had been brought under Owen's pernicious influence was recited at the River ceremony every Sixday, as a warning and a reminder to the townspeople. If Mandelson drew David into his clutches, it would not be very long before the happy, generous prince that Blueforest knew and that Nick loved would be utterly destroyed. And in his place would be a proud, cold, cruel shell of a man. 

Someone, in fact, very similar to Lord Mandelson himself, lacking only the wizard's dark powers and therefore completely under Mandelson's control. 

Sudden fury shook Nick and he found himself up on his feet, one fist clenched on his godfather's talisman, glaring into the darkness. Prince David, a wizard's plaything? Never! 

“You won't do it, Mandelson,” he whispered grimly, his fury settling into a steady burn of determination. “I know what you're planning, and I – will – stop – you. I will!”

With one short, choppy nod of his head, jaw set and chin jutting determinedly, Nick settled back into the huddle which was his favoured sleeping position, snuggled a little deeper into his rag of blanket, and at last felt himself drift into slumber. 

...

The next morning Nick was busy washing up the staff's breakfast dishes when the household valet, young Burnham, came in, face sheet-white, and announced, "Th' master's in one of his strops this morning, and no mistake! Well, I'm not attending to his room! Where's Cinderbrat? Oi - you!", as his eyes fell on the scullery boy, head down over a pile of dirty crockery, "You get yourself up to the master's bedroom and attend to it! An' make a proper job of it, you lazy lump - no cleaning of the fireplace and leaving the rest for me, understand? Go on, get to it!"

He aimed a clout at Nick's head as the other hastened past but Nick ducked the blow with the skill of long practice and ran up the back stairs, his stomach one big hollow at the thought of encountering Lord Mandelson while the wizard was in the grip of one of his ice-cold, terrifying rages. But he was only the scullery boy. If anyone in the household ordered him to do something, he was obliged to obey. Quite apart from his lowly status, Mandelson's coercion spells enforced his obedience unless he was carrying his godfather's talisman, and Nick had no desire to reveal the existence of that until he had to. It was hidden away in the safest place Nick could think of, out in the stables, in a storeroom which only Nick ever had reason to use, so once again Nick was carrying a cold weight in his chest and on his tongue, preventing any acts of rebellion and shutting his memories of childhood love and happiness away behind a barrier of non-feeling which he could not penetrate.

He reached the floor where his master's rooms were located and approached the door to Mandelson's bedroom, his heart thudding so hard he feared he might choke from it. The wizard usually rose early, broke his fast with a simple meal of bread, honey and fresh fruit, and removed himself to his study for the remainder of the day, but there were occasions when he remained in his bedroom until much later. 

And then woe betide any servant who disturbed him. Especially if that unfortunate was Nick...

Nick reached the door. Tentatively he raised his hand, then lowered it, then raised it again. Finally a spark of anger at himself pushed him into tapping at the door - very, very softly.

There was no response. Nick repeated the knock, a little more forcibly, and waited, hope growing. Was his master out after all? 

There was no sound at all from within, and nervously Nick pushed open the door and sidled through into the spacious room that had once belonged to Nick's beloved guardian. Although it was now furnished in a far richer and more opulent fashion than when Master Ashdown had been the occupier, Nick could never look at the room without seeing his guardian in it.

This time, however, all memories of Master Ashdown fled at the scene before him.

The room was in chaos. It was as if a small but particularly vicious whirlwind had spun through, ripping the pictures from the walls and the curtains from the great four poster bed and sending delicate porcelain vases and ornaments flying across the room to crash against the wood-panelled walls. Precious glass decanters and wine glasses had smashed to the floor, splashing wine and spirits and rare, precious perfumes across the intricate, finely worked patterns of the rugs and carpets, and the whole room was covered in a snowstorm of books and vellum and loose leaves of paper.

Jaw agape, Nick stared around, wondering a little helplessly where to start. He had perforce had to clean up after his master's rages before, but they had never been this destructive! What had occurred to put Mandelson into such a fury?

With a resigned shrug of bony shoulders Nick began to clear the floor of debris and smashed ornaments, reasoning that he had better get all the broken fragments out of the carpet before he did anything else, or his feet would suffer. He went slowly, checking every nook and cranny for glass splinters and shards of porcelain which must have been smashed with great force to have been thrown so far - under tables, behind chests, even lodged behind bookshelves!

And that was when he found the letter.

Tucked down behind a red leather-clad chest, which was usually piled high with papers that Lord Mandelson liked to work on late at night, was an old, stained envelope. Nick tugged it out, along with the fragment of china which had been the original object of his search, and blinked at the vigorous scrawl of the address. The ink was old and faded, but the hand was unmistakably his guardian's - and it was addressed to Lord Mandelson of Roseheim, Thaumaturge of the Imperial Court.

Nick stared at the envelope, chewing furiously at his lip. It was his master's private correspondence... But it was from his guardian... It might hold some clue to what had happened to Master Ashdown!

That last thought was enough, and Nick hurriedly shoved the envelope into his ragged shirt before resuming his cleaning. He had to neaten the room and clear it of all the irretrievably broken items before Mandelson returned, he knew. 

By the morrow all the ornaments and the glass would have been replaced, all the torn materials would have been as if they had never been damaged, and the carpets would once again be pristine - but only if Nick had cleared up the damage first. Once, back when Nick was still learning his duties, he had left the broken and damaged furnishings and ornaments where they lay, thinking that Lord Mandelson's wizardly powers would simply replace them. His master had been furious, and the beating Nick had received from the Head Groom as a consequence had been among the worst of the many he'd been given over the years. His back still bore scars...

When the door to the study swung open and Mandelson stepped through, Nick was on his knees polishing the brass surround of the fireplace, his bucket full of broken china and glass and the floor swept clean and glowing with freshly-applied wax. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched his master's dark gaze sweep the room and nod in curt acknowledgement of the transformation. Then Mandelson stalked across to snatch up the papers Nick had piled on the desk and scan swiftly through them.

"These are not in order," he snapped. Nick shrank a little lower.

"I, I... No, master," he faltered, and was about to try and explain that he had not thought Mandelson would want his private business read by the house scullery boy when the wizard gave a short bark of laughter.

"Ha, foolish of me, to expect a dullard like you to understand these matters! I doubt you can even read, halfwitted Wanderer's brat that you are - eh?"

"No master," Nick responded obediently, too relieved to be affected by his master's jibes. He scrambled to his feet and ducked his head humbly. "Is, is there anything more you wish m-me to do here, milord?"

Mandelson waved a dismissive hand. "No, no. Be about your duties, halfwit. Go!"

Thankfully, Nick fled, only to encounter the housekeeper on the landing. Mistress Cooper dealt him a brisk buffet around his ears and sent him to help prepare the dining room for the evening's formal dinner, and as soon as that was completed the cook sent for him. The demands of the kitchen staff kept him hard at work for the rest of day, right through the formal supper and late into the night. No chance to peek at the guests, to enjoy their happiness and admire their attire, and perhaps glimpse Prince David - if the prince had even attended. And certainly no opportunity to examine the letter tucked away snugly at his waist...

Some time after midnight a solitary figure slipped furtively across the courtyard in the warm silvery light of the almost-full midsummer moon, to be lost in the black shadows of the stable yard. A door creaked open, then shut again, and all was as before, serene and silent under the night sky.

Inside the harness room Nick lit the covered lantern hanging by the door and took it across to the small room - more of a cupboard than a room - where he kept the shovels, buckets, brooms and other items he used about the stable yard. Setting the lantern down on the floor he took his godfather's talisman from its hiding place atop the roofbeam, rejoicing in the sudden explosion of light and colour which washed across it as the cold weight of Mandelson's enchantment melted away like ice in the sun. Memories of love and warmth and friendship rushed back into his head - no longer bright pictures locked away behind a pane of glass, mere visions carrying little sense of connection to himself. They were there now, back where they belonged, and that fierce anger rose in Nick once more at what had been wrested from him. Some day, he vowed silently, there would be a reckoning....

But for now - there was the letter.

Hands shaking a little with eagerness and trepidation, Nick squatted next to the dim warm light of the lantern and drew the letter out of the envelope. It was but two sheets of paper, written in the hurried impatient scrawl which Nick knew was his guardian's working hand, used for Guild business and trade matters. Ashdown had possessed another, more formal style, but that had been reserved for social engagements and family occasions.

So this was a business letter? Why would Master Ashdown be using this style when writing to a kinsman, even on a matter of trade -

Unless Lord Mandelson was no kin at all.

And if he was not kin, and not heir... how had he known about Master Ashdown's disappearance? How had he arrived so opportunely at the house on Cowley Street, with all the correct papers to hand declaring him heir? To be sure, he was a wizard, but even wizards must need time to prepare. Which suggested that Lord Mandelson had known in advance that Master Ashdown's business and property would fall vacant...

Nick drew a long, shaky breath, and cautioned himself against letting his imaginings run wild. Why, he hadn't even read the letter yet! There could be a perfectly logical explanation, involving no wrongdoing at all - but somehow, he doubted it.

Bending closer to the lamp, Nick turned the letter towards the dim glow and held it as close as he dared, squinting to make sense of the inky scrawl. It had been some time since he had been able to snatch more than a glance at a book or a broadsheet, but he had always been a voracious reader and he was relieved to discover that the skill had not left him. 

The letter appeared to be a standard closing letter acknowledging formal receipt of Lord Mandelson's payment for the entire cargo of the _Liberty Bird_ , the ship with which Ashdown had made his fortune and the very craft whose rumoured loss had led to the master merchant's trip overseas.

Lord Mandelson and the _Liberty Bird_... and now a hand-written letter from his guardian - dated after his departure overseas, Nick suddenly noticed - what did it all mean?

Nick growled in frustration, his hand clenching involuntarily on the letter. All these separate pieces must fit together somehow! How had Mandelson met Ashdown? For what reason? And was his guardian, maybe, still alive and held captive somewhere under enchantment - perhaps the same kind of enchantment with which Mandelson had chained and silenced Nick?

Realising that the letter was a crumpled ball in his hand, Nick smoothed it flat again then examined it as closely as he could in the hope of finding something unusual, some turn of phrase or code word which might give him a further clue to what had happened. There was a blurred, scratched out word near the bottom of the second sheet where it seemed that the quill had spluttered, and Nick moved the paper as close as possible to the lantern glass covering and magnifying the candle flame, putting his face as close as he dared to both. As he bent nearly double in his effort to make sense of the tangled letters, the Fae snuffbox fell out of his ragged shirt and landed full on the letter.

Light and colour flared up from the snuffbox in a spray of brilliant gold sparks, washing out across the paper in a fizzing dazzle of brightness, and with a muffled yelp Nick dropped the hand-written sheets, afraid that they had burst into flame. 

The letter hit the ground, and the snuffbox - which surely should have slid or bounced from the papers - stayed where it had struck the letter as if it had been glued there. It was still glowing, through with the steady light of a fire rather than the dancing sparkle of a firework, and the letter too was taking on a light of its own.

No, it wasn't the letter, it was the ink! A thrill of excitement raced through Nick as Master Ashdown's handwriting began to shine, a shimmering silver that was growing ever stronger, turning from black to moonlit silver, glowing more and more brightly until Nick had to look away... The glow was so bright it was throwing sharp shadows on the wall, but those shadows did not look like any of the objects which might have caused them! Nick swallowed apprehensively when he saw the spiked and clawed shapes shifting and moving on the wall of the tiny room, twisting and turning and seemingly fighting to pull free of whatever held them to step out into the shining air...

... But then the snuffbox returned to effulgent life, the blaze of gold and azure combining with the silver of the letter in a brightness so fierce that Nick was forced to close his eyes.

There came a soundless explosion of light which washed over Nick like a breaking wave of bright water, then darkness. 

Cautiously Nick opened his eyes to see his small storeroom looking very much as it usually did, save for the presence of a lit stable lantern on the floor by his knee with a very ordinary-looking letter on two sheets of paper lying next to it, held down by an enamelled gold and blue snuffbox.

What had just happened?

Nick reached out for the snuffbox, then hesitated. Don't be a fool, he castigated himself. Your godfather gave you that snuffbox! He would never give you something which might cause you harm! - ah, but he's a Fae, his caution responded. How is he to know what would harm a human?

Fiercely Nick shook his head at himself and in one swift, hurried movement scooped up the snuffbox, wincing in anticipation as he did so.

Nothing. When he turned his hand over and opened his fingers the snuffbox was sitting innocently on his calloused palm, its enamel work shining gently in the glow of the lantern with no sign that it was anything more than a beautifully-crafted example of the jeweller's art.

With a gusty sigh of relief Nick scrambled to his feet. Snatching up his guardian's letter and folding it into its envelope, he stuffed it into the unused dovetail hole in the roof beam where he kept his treasures. Weighting it down with the snuffbox and with one final check that all was out of sight, he hastily returned the lantern to its hook by the door and hurried back to the kitchen. 

Once wrapped in his rag of blanket, Nick told himself to sleep. Now was not the time to think about what had just occurred - not when dawn, and his household duties, were a bare few hours away... Closing his eyes, Nick took a couple of deep breaths, making himself relax. Fatigue swept over him in a great wave, and he slept.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The next morning all seemed to have returned to normal in the Mandelson household. Nick swept, cleaned, polished, scrubbed floors and hauled wood and coal in his usual workaday routine, all the while half-expecting to be called to his master's study to explain the disappearance of the Ashdown letter...

But no call came.

Could his godfather's magickal talisman be even more powerful than Nick had guessed - did Mandelson not realise the letter had been taken, let alone that it had been ... disenchanted, or whatever the word was? 

As the morning wore on with no sign of extra attention from the wizard, Nick felt the tight knots of apprehension in his middle gradually begin to uncurl. Perhaps - perhaps it was going to be all right? He could keep his memento of his guardian after all?

In the forenoon the pot boy was sent out to help in the stables, a regular occurrence and one which Nick always enjoyed. Although the Chief Groom, Goodman Brown, was someone of violent passions and given to roaring fits of anger that sent everyone scurrying for cover, he was fair minded with it, possessing little of the cruelty which was so characteristic of Lord Mandelson, his journeymen, and so many of the household staff. And Nick liked horses. They were so uncomplicatedly pleased to see him, caring nothing for his tainted blood or his lowly status, and showed their gratitude for his care and caresses with an affection which had long soothed his lonely heart.

It was a bright, breezy day, more suited to late spring than the height of summer, and the shutters in the stable block were flung wide to let in the light and the scented breeze from the neighbouring meadow. Stable lads were scurrying hither and yon at the behest of the Chief Groom, whose deep voice was roaring orders at a speed that made Nick, for once, very glad he was not considered one of Goodman Brown's minions.

There was to be a hunt, it seemed; Lord Mandelson had suddenly accepted the invitation extended to himself and his journeymen to join the hunting party that Castle Torai was sending out in search of venison that very afternoon, and now it fell to the Chief Groom and his stable lads to make all ready at the last minute - the hunting horses, their harness and accoutrements, and the steadier riding horses that would transport the three with their servants to the camp from which the hunt would set out, at which point the men would transfer to their speedier hunters.

So Nick's appearance was greeted with relief by the harassed stable staff and he was immediately set to mucking out while the stable lads and lasses busied themselves with the preparations for the hunting expedition. Nick set to with a will, hoping that if he was sufficiently speedy he might be permitted to care for one of the working horses, or perhaps even the carriage team. And so it proved, for just as he was scattering fresh straw in the last of the loose boxes undergroom Watson appeared at the door.

"How much longer - ah, you've finished in here, good! Chief says to tend to Salt and Pepper. Just a quick brush down, nothing fancy! Don't you go fancying yourself a proper groom, ashface - hear? Now, get to it or you'll be catching the back of my hand, and that'll be nothing to what the Chief'll do to you!"

Nick ducked his head, humbly acknowledging the gabble of Watson's rapid, town-accented speech, and hastened across the stable yard to the row of boxes that housed the carriage teams. Salt and Pepper were a pair of matched bay geldings, not of the first quality and well past their prime but strong, steady and unflappable, possessing the perfect temperament to pull the small gig about the lively, crowded Goldeagle streets for Mistress Cooper when she was about her duties. Nick was fond of them, and harboured a small hope that they liked him too - they always seemed happy to see him on the rare occasions when he was permitted to groom them.

Salt and Pepper's stalls were at the very end of the row, with windows that looked out over the meadow, and the bright sun streaming in through the open shutters, along with gusts of the warm, meadow-scented summer breeze, made it a pleasant place to spend a little time - quite apart from the nature of the task before him. 

Nick relaxed as he began to work on Pepper. This promised to be an enjoyable afternoon!

"She'a heras berannui k'ta!"

Nick flinched, instinctively ducking at the harsh-voiced command to keep quiet and stay hidden - then blinked in confusion. He hadn't seen anyone else enter the stable! 

He shifted towards the front of Pepper's stall to see if someone had somehow managed to enter the building without him noticing, when another unfamiliar voice responded to the first, and in the same language. This time Nick was able to tell where it was coming from; the meadow outside the stable. The two strangers must be just outside the window, close against the wall to ensure they were hidden from the view of any casual passers-by who might be going down to the river by way of the lane through the grassy meads.

Pepper's nose nudged at his shoulder in an unsubtle reminder that he had still to finish the final brushing of the gelding's coat, and with a quick pat of apology Nick returned to his task, keeping an ear out for as much of the muttered conversation as he could overhear. There was a furtive quality to it that made him uneasy - and why were they talking in that particular dialect, unless it was their native tongue? And if it was their native tongue - why were a pair of Imperials lurking outside a Goldeagle stable and speaking in conspiratorial whispers?

It was just as well that he had befriended so many Imperial sailors down on the Goldeagle docks these past few years, he realised after a moment. He understood the two men perfectly...

"Not happy about this, mate. Not happy at all. Don't sit right."

"Not our choice, is it? We take his money, we do as we're told. Besides, I don't fancy getting the wrong side of a witchy. Court witchy as well - they're the worst. Do what we're told, get our pay, and get out quick - that's what I say!"

"But this is no ordinary job, Ed. This is political. What is the boss thinking! Politics is always messy. Why's he got himself mixed up in the affairs of a tuppenny-ha'penny outland dukedom anyway?" 

Nick could hear the shrug, and the callous indifference, in Ed's tones, even as his own mouth dried and his heart seemed to stop. David. They had to be talking about... David! And their 'boss' was - had to be - Lord Mandelson! Who had taken on a 'job' for someone unnamed, presumably at the Imperial Court... What job? Who for? And what was the wizard's plan for David?

Still automatically passing the brush over first Pepper's, then Salt's coats, as the horses sighed and leaned into his strokes, Nick strained to hear more. The two men were still grumbling, but within their complaints Nick managed to pick up the gist of what was planned. The duo were to go out with Mandelson and his journeymen in the guise of their accompanying grooms, leading the men's hunting horses. Then, once the hunt had left the camp, the pair would slip away to a pre-arranged spot where the journeymen would bring the prince to them - after he had been 'gentled' so that he would be biddable and easy to handle. (Nick snarled silently at that. No-one was going to 'gentle' his David if he could prevent it!) 

Ed and his companion were then to conduct David to a secluded 'safe place' - not the house on Cowley Street - and await Lord Mandelson's arrival, hopefully before the alarm was raised over the prince's disappearance.

It seemed that David was not to be harmed - physically, at any rate - and once Mandelson had 'dealt with' him, he was to be returned to Castle Torai as if nothing untoward had happened, thereby avoiding any potentially disastrous encounters with the Torai Court sorcerers. 

"The boss is a bit... twitchy round that lot. Seems they're too good at their jobs for his liking."

"Huh. How good can a rabble of outland witchies be?"

"True enough... I'm guessing he doesn't want to take any chances, even if they are only outlanders. C'mon, mate. We took the man's money, we have to fulfil our side. We'll get out as quick as we can after. That do?"

There was an unhappy grunt from Ed's companion.

"I suppose. Let's get to it then. Which horses we taking...?"

The voices faded away towards the stable's meadow gate, and hurriedly Nick ran to the door to catch a glimpse of the two conspirators.

He was unlucky, however. While Nick had worked on Pepper and Salt things had moved on outside. The yard was full of men and horses; the hunting party was making final preparations to depart. Even as Nick reached the door Lord Mandelson and his journeymen appeared from the house, dressed in fashionable but functional hunting gear and carrying the crossbows and quivers of heavy hunting quarrels needed to bring down a stag. Hastily Nick slid back into the shadows of the stable. He did not dare come out into the open yet. If he was seen he would be sent back to the kitchen, and once under the stern eye of Goodman Balls he would never be able to get away!

Frantically Nick looked about the busy yard, his gaze skipping from excited horse, to harried groom, to stoic attendant - he hesitated, looked back, looked again. Yes, there were two men standing behind Lord Mandelson, holding the reigns of two of the household workhorses along with the sturdy cobs used by the journeymen for errands and the like.

Those two. It had to be.

Nick studied them from the shadow of the doorway, fixing their appearance in his mind. He did not remember seeing either of them before. Neither was memorable in appearance or manner; one dark haired, the other greyer, both tall, slim, clean shaven, and neatly and conventionally dressed in the shirt, waistcoat and breeches of the small trader or personal servant. They looked nothing like the bandits or bravos that Nick had visualised from their overheard conversation!

Even as Nick watched, the two held the stirrups of the cobs for the journeymen to mount, then mounted in their turn and took the reigns of the three hunters the Mandelson party were to use later. Lord Mandelson had swung himself into the saddle of the grey thoroughbred that was his own favoured mount; now, with a nod of command to his companions he led the way out of the stable yard at a brisk trot, journeymen a pace behind and the two Imperial henchmen bringing up the rear with the three hunting horses on their leading reigns following eagerly behind.

Nick did not stay to watch the stable settle back into its routine. He had moved even as Lord Mandelson had moved towards his horse, accurately guessing that all eyes would be on the master of the household. Sidling along the wall of the stable block until he reached the the small room where he kept his treasures, he slipped inside and retrieved his snuffbox, then - sighing with relief as the world turned colourful and full of possibilities around him - he made his way back to the carriage horses' loose boxes, pausing only to remove an old, much-patched saddle and bridle from an unobtrusive peg in the shadows of the harness room on the way. 

A quick glance out of the door confirmed that Lord Mandelson was just exiting the stable yard, so Nick made haste to Pepper's box and swiftly harnessed the old horse, talking in a breathless undertone all the while.

"Good horse, Pepper. Easy now... you won't mind me riding you, will you? You've been ridden before, though I doubt you remember when Danny would ride you - ah, good horse!" - as Pepper's ears pricked forward and he whickered eagerly, presenting his muzzle for the bridle. "You like this? You want to go out? Good lad..."

When the saddle went on Pepper snorted in surprise but settled quickly, turning his head to watch with interest as Nick adjusted the girth and stirrups. Nick resented having to take the time to put on a full saddle and bridle, but felt he had little choice. Riding Pepper bareback for any distance would be painful both for him, and more importantly, for Pepper, besides making the horse much more difficult to control.

Saddling complete - much faster than Nick had feared, thanks to Pepper's easy temperament - he led the horse to the back of the stable, where an old door, hidden in the shadows, showed little sign of the recent use to which Nick had put it. He was not sure that Chief Groom Brown even knew of the door's existence, though it had seen regular use in Master Ashdown's day to let the horses out to graze on the sweet spring grass of the river meadow. When Nick had realised that no-one was using it he had quietly worked on it over time, greasing the hinges and the lock, keeping it clear of debris and concealing it behind a stack of stable tools. It was this door that he had used to gain entrance to the household after the Midsummer Ball... _Ah, David! please be safe! I must warn you! I must!..._

Glancing around to confirm that he was still undiscovered, Nick led the willing Pepper through the door, pulling it to behind him. Then he swung himself into the saddle and set his steed in motion, heading for the forest at a canter. He had this advantage, he told himself determinedly as he urged Pepper on; there were few people in Goldeagle who knew the woods as he knew them, and none of them were in Mandelson's household! He knew where the Torai Hunt would have set up their camp, and he knew by far the quickest method to get there too! 

He could only hope that he reached them before the hunt - and Prince David - set off...

Close to Goldeagle the forest was open with many sun-dappled glades and clearings, for many of the townsfolk grazed their animals on the rich pickings under the trees. Nick kept Pepper to an easy, ground-eating canter, picking his way from one clearing to the next and concentrating fiercely on working out the quickest route, everything having to fight through a dreadful sinking fear for David... once or twice his thighs tightened involuntarily on Pepper's flanks, leading the old horse to lengthen his stride into a lumbering gallop and Nick to hastily relax again with an apologetic pat to Pepper's neck. But he had to hurry. 

He had to.

_David..._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Prince David, heir to the Duchy of Torai, was not his usual self. He wandered aimlessly through the bustling camp, avoiding excited staghounds and harassed huntsmen alike, dodging pages trotting hither and yon with messages and squires burdened with all manner of hunting weapons from boar spears to bows without really seeing any of the purposeful activity around him. Usually he adored the excitement of the chase and the thrill of facing a furious stag or boar that had been brought to bay, he reflected. Especially when the meat would be going straight to the kitchens. Midsummer festivals needed a lot of provisioning. The Castle Torai huntsmen were hoping to get two or three kills today, taking their quarry from among those unfortunate stags who had failed to gain themselves a harem at the annual rut earlier in the year and were as a consequence roaming the forest alone.

David's preferred quarry, in fact. A perfect day for a hunt, a challenging quarry, and the congenial company of like-minded friends and colleagues... and yet the prince was miserable. 

"Have you heard from Redwood? He thinks you'll pick up at least one of those stags just past Sweetgrass Hollow..." 

George's excited voice trailed off as he saw David's face, and he put a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder as he handed over the reins of the prince's favourite hunter. "No sign yet of your mystery boy? I'm sure he'll arrive soon. Look - there's a party just arriving from Goldeagle now! Go and see if your Nick is among them - or perhaps they might know of him, and can tell you where to find him!"

David turned eagerly, only to shake his head in disappointment.

"No no, those are the last people I'd ask! Those people were at the Ball - Nick was so scared of them, George. I'm sure they were the reason he ran away... and he told me not to trust them, either. They're Imperial, you know, no matter that they live in Goldeagle. No. I can only hope that the Court Wizard can glean something from the mask Nick left behind."

"Well it's clear from their clothes that they're from Roseheim," commented George, openly admiring the hunting gear worn by the leader of the new arrivals. "Just look at that outfit! Lord Mandelson must have ordered it direct from the Imperial Court tailors." 

Then he looked back at his prince, an arrested expression on his pale features. "Wait - Nick is frightened of Lord Mandelson, you say? And warned you against him?"

David had returned to an unnecessary, last-minute check of his equipment. "That's what he said," he returned briefly, testing the strength of the strap fastening his case of quarrels to his hunting saddle. Absently he patted Alexandros in reassurance when the big gelding flicked his ears in curiosity at this unaccustomed fidgeting about from his human, adding,

"I did not need a great deal of convincing, George. There is something very unpleasant about those three. And the way they hounded me at the ball...!"

Abruptly tiring of the conversation, he swung up into his saddle and gathered up his reins, preparing to move over to where the hunting party was gradually coming together, with much chat and laughter and the odd gruff order from an increasingly stressed Head Huntsman Redwood. 

George stepped forward, putting a hand up to Alex's bridle. "I think Nick had the right of it, and that your instincts are good," he said seriously, crinkling his eyes against the sun as he looked up at his friend. "Bercow tells me that someone, or some _thing_ , has been testing our wards of late. And whatever-it-is has a distinct taste of Imperial thaumaturgy about it. 

"So be wary of those three while you're chasing down the game, my prince." 

Then he made a conscious effort to throw off the serious mood that had descended on them both. "Though I doubt whether they can carry out their plans - if indeed they have any - in the middle of a hunt! You go and show everyone that our Prince is truly a prince among huntsmen, and I will see what I can discover about your lad from the members of their retinue. Not all servants are as close-mouthed as their masters, even in Imperial households." 

David's unwontedly serious countenance lightened, and he chuckled. "Any excuse for a gossip, eh George?" he teased, then sobered. "That is an excellent thought; and thank you. You will get far more out of them than I would." 

There was a shout from the glade and a burst of barking from the Castle Torai stag hounds and he gathered his reins once again. "Ah, we are finally about to leave it seems. Here's hoping for a successful afternoon, for both of us!" 

Alexandros moved off to join the hunting party and within a very short span of time the seeming confusion of curvetting horses, chattering riders and excited hounds had resolved themselves into some kind of order and disappeared into the trees. 

George turned towards the group of grooms and other servants that had arrived with Mandelson and his journeymen, already considering which approach would be best and which servant to speak to first. Given that they were not from the duchy they would not recognise him, and it was doubtful therefore that any of them would realise that he was of a higher social rank than they. Unlike the custom in Imperial society, Torai hunters usually dressed in the plainest and most functional of garments; in fact George was amused to notice that several members of Mandelson's retinue were better clad than he was!

He wandered across to where the Imperial grooms were tending to their masters' riding mounts and fell into easy conversation with the two or three undergrooms who appeared to have no immediate duties. Their charges, it transpired, were the hunters on which their master and his journeymen were currently out at hunt, and with little to do until the hunt returned to camp, the grooms - Tom, Jez, and a sturdy middle aged woman called Angela - were most willing to draw a cup or two of ale and spin a few yarns with this friendly outlander.

George was just beginning to move the conversation towards why their master had moved to Goldeagle in the first place, and from where, when a disturbance at the edge of the camp caught his attention.

A ragged figure atop a sturdy chestnut cob had been intercepted just short of the guard tent and was now arguing, with much waving of hands, with the lieutenant in charge of the prince's guard detail. 

"Wha - why, isn't that the scullery brat?" demanded one of George's companions. 

One of his companions looked across from watering the Mandelson horses. "Nah, don't be - why, you're right Tom, that's Ashface and no mistake. The uppity little bugger! What's he doing here -"

The guards had raised their bows by this time. George was relieved to see that with arrows poised and following his every move the rider was reluctantly dismounting, protest clear to see in every move of that skinny body. 

Ther was a gusty sigh from the groom called Tom, who seemed to be the one in charge of their contingent. 

"I'd better go and claim him before he gets us in any more trouble. Bastard little cinderface. Still, what do you expect from one of them Wandering Folk? Thieves and troublemakers the lot of them. When the master finds out he's here..."

There were nods of agreement as Tom reluctantly turned towards the fast-growing gathering of guards and curious onlookers, some sympathetic, but most of grim satisfaction at the unnamed punishment that the scullery boy was about to face, and with a brief word of farewell George fell in behind the Imperial groom, catching him up just as he reached the small crowd surrounding the boy.

"I, I have to speak to the Prince, it's important, I swear! He's in danger! Please, oh please, you must hear me out -" the boy's voice was unexpectedly educated, his accent far from that of a beggar or a peasant, and George, his interest now most definitely piqued, moved quietly away from Tom and into a position where he could see and hear without it being obvious he was doing so.

As soon as the boy 's bare feet had touched the ground he had been roughly seized by the guards and dragged willy-nilly, despite his lack of resistance, to face Lieutenant Hammond, the officer in charge, insisting all the while at the top of his voice that he be allowed to speak to the prince. Now Hammond's irritated bellow drowned out the youngster's huskier tones, forcibly silencing him.

"Ho! Important is it? Now what could a guttersnipe like you have to say to our prince that's so damned important! A likely story. And where did such a ragamuffin acquire such a mount? Stolen, I've no doubt -"

Before the lieutenant had quite reached full flow he was interrupted.

"Gentle sirs, my apologies. This...insolent brat is, I regret to say, of my Lord Mandelson's household."

When George turned to look the speaker was not Tom, who was still standing where George had left him (and who appeared most happy not to have to intervene, judging by the relieved expression on his broad face). 

Just within the entrance to the camp, with his reins looped over one arm and a dejected-looking mount at his shoulder, was the taller of Mandelson's two journeymen. He looked over the scene before him, his mouth twisting scornfully, then moved forward, indicating to Tom to take his (clearly lame) horse. 

The journeyman turned to the lieutenant. "Good sir, my name is Alastair, Senior Journeyman to my Lord Mandelson of Roseheim, once Chief Thaumaturge to the Imperial Court and now an Alderman of Goldeagle Freeport. I must apologise for this most unseemly incident. This.... creature is our scullery boy, a mere Wanderer's brat of no account who my lord took into his household out of compassion and charitable duty. It is to be regretted that, as with all his folk, he possesses no vestige of the civilised sentiments of gratitude or the most basic rudiments of honour. He is naught but a lout, a mere brute, lazy, dishonest and cowardly..."

George's black brows twitched together as he listened, seeing the ragamuffin's reaction. Watching the slow flush of shame spread across the boy's features, visible even through the grime and bruises which proclaimed the lad's lowly status more clearly than any words, and seeing how he kept his head proudly erect through the whole tirade, his chin high and his eyes on his master's face - no. That was no coward. And somehow George doubted the rest of it also. That half-starved, lanky body, dwarfed by the sturdy guards surrounding it and yet still unbowed... facing down his betters, taut with his desperation to warn Prince David of - something...

Abruptly George came to life and strode forward.

"Enough of this!" he snapped. "Lieutenant Hammond, bring the boy and come with me!"

"My lord -" began Journeyman Alastair, only to be waved impatiently to silence; a response which the tall Imperial found not to his liking in the slightest, judging by the way his mouth hardened, fury sparking in his eyes as he snapped his mouth shut on whatever he had been about to say.

Well, let him stew. George was no diplomat and no Great Lord either, but his close friendship with Prince David gave him an influence that was much greater than might be guessed from his family background, and he was well accustomed to making full use of that when he deemed it necessary. 

As, for instance, when determining whether there was a threat to the Torai heir, and if so, what manner of threat it might be.

Once in the relative privacy of the Royal tent George seated himself deliberately in the Prince's ornate camp chair. Its high back and curved arms were distinctly reminiscent of a throne, which he hoped would send the right message.

The guards had followed him into the tent and were standing just in front of him, one each side of their prisoner, who looked... more impatient than intimidated, George noticed, a flicker of amusement breaking through his preoccupation with what the youngster had to tell him and whether any of it would be true. The Goldeagle lad was only a scullery boy, of course, and apparently a Wanderer at that. Presumably desperate to get away from what was obviously a bad master, who could blame him for making up a false tale which might earn him the gratitude of someone wealthy enough to buy him out of his situation! 

George opened his mouth to order the boy to speak, but before he could utter a sound he was interrupted. The tent flap closing them off from the rest of the camp suddenly lifted, and the Imperial Journeyman walked in, grim-faced - and without so much as a by-your-leave! 

Furious, George drew breath to demand why this intrusion... 

... There was a sudden - flicker - of light and sound and air, as if the world had, had hiccuped, or jumped somehow...

... and suddenly there was no boy, and no Journeyman Alastair. Only Lieutenant Hammond and his guards, looking as confused as George felt, with an empty space between them and a half open tent flap behind.

"What -" began George furiously, before snapping his mouth shut on the angry explosion behind his teeth. There was a slight tingling in his fingertips and a rapidly fading buzz in his ears; he knew what that meant! They had all been Frozen in time. It wouldn't have lasted long, it was a spell that took a great deal of power and control even to cast for a few seconds, but then, a few seconds would have been all that was needed.

That Imperial Journeyman, it had to be. The gall of it, using magic in Blueforest lands, and on a member of the Ducal Court, without so much as a by-your-leave! The Duchess would be incandescent, as would Wizard Bercow, but George was more concerned over the Imperial's reasons for breaking all the rules of diplomatic protocol in the first place. That scullery boy must have had some genuine information, or why had the journeyman taken such drastic action to prevent him passing on what he knew? 

And that meant that Prince David truly was in danger!

George exploded out of the tent, yelling for the captain of the guard. They had to find the Prince!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"I was cursing the ill-chance which lamed my horse at such an inopportune time," Alastair was saying to Nick at that very moment, holding Nick's arm in a grip so tight it was bruising to the bone. His tone was casual, the words light and seemingly cheerful, but Nick could see the cold fury burning in the taller man's eyes and was not fooled.

"There we were, all ready to go, and my horse fails me... which brings me back to camp just in time to prevent you betraying the whole plan! I had to show my own hand, of course, but my lord is still unknown, as is Charles. The Torai know nothing of them, and we hold Goldeagle in the palm of our hand. We can still do this. Truly fate smiled on us today..."

He was dragging Nick through the woods, towards the planned rendezvous with the pair who were to take charge of David. 

_At least David is safe for today,_ Nick found himself thinking as Alastair forced him onwards, stumbling over the rough forest floor and feeling the wrenching pain in his arm sharpen and grow with every step. _And I'm sure George will realise that I must have been telling the truth, otherwise why go to such lengths to prevent me talking to him? But... oh, what will they do to me? Godfather, help! Please, if you can hear me, please..._

No response, though the snuffbox tucked against Nick's ribs seemed to warm slightly when Nick thought of his Godfather. 

Alastair strode on, his fury leading him to lengthen his stride, and Nick flinched, the uneven, debris-strewn ground bruising his bare feet as he was forced into a half-run by Alastair's tight grip pulling him along. He stumbled and nearly fell, and was unable to repress a cry of pain as his arm was twisted brutally high behind his back. Alastair snorted.

"Ach, such a coward! Sneaking around listening and spying behind our backs! Snivelling little traitor!" He shook his captive, then, suddenly losing his temper altogether, he threw Nick to the ground and began to beat him, venting all his pent-up anger and frustration on his captive.

Nick began to curl in on himself, to endure until the storm had passed as he had always done; and then, suddenly, he snapped. The slow-burning coals of his anger and frustration, fanned by a growing warmth from the snuffbox, burst into full-blown rage. With a yell of rage Nick sprang to his feet and attacked his tormentor, bony fists pummelling at Alastair in a passionate fury.

Alastair flinched and jumped back, caught completely unawares; then with a growl of angry contempt he dodged sideways, shouting an arcane phrase, and thrust one hand, glowing a dull crimson, at his assailant. The ball of energy flashed towards Nick - and dissipated in a shower of sparks even before he had time to duck! 

With another shout, of triumph this time, Nick threw himself bodily at Alastair.

Both men crashed to the forest floor, scattering dead leaves and twigs in all directions, and the struggle recommenced, both men so absorbed in their fight that neither noticed others approaching.

"When you have both _quite_ finished..."

There was no immediate reaction from the two men on the ground, and with an irritated sigh Lord Mandelson raised a hand, snapping out a phrase in a language that was certainly not Imperial. 

A bright red, translucent barrier sprang into existence around Alastair, forcing the tall journeyman off the ground and back on to his feet, but Nick, still intent on hitting back at his longtime tormentor, simply scrambled up in his turn to fling himself once more into the fray.

With a grunt of surprise Mandelson repeated the phrase, aiming only at Nick this time, but the red glow flashed into existence only to sputter and disappear as Nick charged through it, eyes fixed on a now-apprehensive, retreating Alastair.

"Charles!" snapped Mandelson, shaking free of the surprise that had held him briefly motionless. The combative journeyman needed no further instruction; jumping forward from his position at his master's shoulder he grabbed Nick by the shoulders and hauled him off his fellow magician. Then, with Alastair's help, he twisted the struggling youth's arms behind his back and forced him round to face Lord Mandelson.

Mandelson's thin face seemed as calm as ever, but there was a tightness to his lips and his dark eyes were smouldering. Yet even as he drew breath to let loose his vicious tongue on his errant servant anger turned to puzzlement, then a cold curiosity.

"Now, just how did you escape the influence of my Control wand, hmm?" he murmured. "Indeed, I wonder how you were able to resist the Homing Bind and hamper our plans in so dramatic a way?... Gentlemen, it would seem there is more to our young scullery brat than meets the eye..."

"We can beat it out of the dirty thief sir! Spineless, like all Wanderer's get, he won't stay silent long - "

Mandelson held up one long-fingered, slender hand and Charles' flood of words dried immediately. Lifting his chin, Nick met Mandelson's eyes, defiance burning in his own. 

"I am not your dog," he said, his voice remarkably calm for one who had been spitting with rage so short a time previously. "Your powers hold no sway over me, my lord."

"That is most clear," returned the other, even as his journeymen cried out in anger at Nick's insolence. "I find myself wondering... how? and why?..

"However, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such ...matters."

The twist in his master's voice on the last word had Nick shivering, but Mandelson had turned away and, gesturing to his journeymen to follow, with Nick still held captive between them, he led the way to a small glade where Mandelson's and Charles' hunters were tethered, peacefully cropping at the sparse grass under the gaze of two men who Nick recognised immediately. Was it only that morning that he'd overheard them outside the stable window, as they discussed the plan to kidnap and bespell Prince David?

_At least I stopped that,_ Nick thought, a hint of forlorn pride breaking through his foreboding. _And Lord Osborne is warned now... surely he'll take precautions, he believed me, at least a little - he was willing to listen, he snubbed Alistair -_

Lord Mandelson was snapping orders.

"Alastair, return immediately to the hunting camp, retrieve the rest of our party, and return here. You must make your own way," he added to the two Imperials. "You will receive your payment -less the bonus for completion of the contract, naturally - in Goldeagle." 

The pair looked a little sullen at this but neither seemed inclined to argue, and their employer turned to Charles, still holding tightly on to Nick and gleefully inflicting painful punishment whenever his prisoner attempted to break free.

"Charles, you are responsible for this -" he gestured disdainfully at Nick "- and for getting him back to Cowley St. Do not let him escape, and do not attempt any coercion spells, for they are clearly ineffective. And most especially do NOT damage him or attempt any physical chastisement; however tempted you might be!"

Charles scowled and seemed about to argue, but Alastair hastily intervened, "Have you seen Fae influence about him, my lord? I am sure I detected some hints of such. Is that why he is able to resist us?"

His master nodded curtly. "It is. I am relieved that at least one of my journeymen is willing to use his wits! Really Charles, did you not see the manner in which our spells collapsed as soon as they struck their target? That is obviously Fae work. Precisely what that influence might be, and why it has been activated in the brat's defence - is something I fully intend to look into... once we are all in my bespelled and shielded study, behind the strongest arcane walls I can muster! 

"Until then we treat the lout as if he were made of purest spun glass - do I make myself clear?"

Charles' scowl had lifted as he listened; now he nodded vigorously and shifted his grip on Nick's arms to a more secure and less painful one. "Alastair, see if you can find some rope at the camp," the stocky journeyman suggested. "It will serve to secure him to a saddle for the journey."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Alastair disappeared back towards the hunting camp, while Lord Mandelson mounted his horse and turned it towards home. The rest of the group settled down to wait.

I hope the camp is buzzing like an overturned beehive! The thought went through Nick's head. If Lord Osborne believed me - and I think, I hope he did - then our disappearance, and especially Alistair's spell... oh, I hope they catch Alastair red-handed! 

But a little later the sound of voices and the rattle of tack told Nick that his hopes were in vain. When Alastair entered the clearing his handsome face looked flushed and angry, and the grooms following him seemed more than a little agitated. Judging by the snatches of conversation Nick overheard, as he was pushed onto Pepper and tied firmly into the saddle despite his struggles to escape, the hunting camp was in considerable disarray. As visiting 'foreigners', though, Alastair had been able to talk the Mandelson party past the soldiers and camp guards by emphasising his master's wealth and power and high rank in Goldeagle society. 

So... no help for Nick from that quarter.

Nick shivered again as he remembered the cold curiosity glinting in Lord Mandelson's dark eyes. Once Mandelson's curiosity had been roused he would not rest until it was satisfied... and what then? What would happen when he discovered the snuffbox - for Nick could not imagine that he would be able to keep it secret for long, in fact he was truly astonished that it had not yet been discovered, in all that had happened that day. Mandelson would take possession of it, of course. That went without saying. But would that alert his godfather to what had happened? Would he come rushing to Nick's defence, or would he (and Nick had a sinking dread that this was the more likely; for after all, who was he that a Fae should help him?) shrug and return to his Fae doings, and dismiss the snuffbox and his godson as no longer his concern?

...

Nick knew Mandelson's study very well indeed. When it had belonged to his guardian the bookshelves had been piled high with books and scrolls and sheets of papyrus. The small areas of wall not covered by those shelves had been crowded with maps old and new, paintings and drawings of curiosities from far away, and everywhere - on desks and tables and cabinets, stuffed into chests and dropped carelessly in corners - had been objects strange and intricate, exotic and beautiful, that Master Merchant Ashdown had accumulated in a lifetime's wanderings across the great seas and oceans. The very air had been scented with the tang of exotic spices and strange scents, and the sun had poured through the great window that had formed one whole wall to fill the room with golden light, displaying its wonders for any visitor to see and marvel at.

Mandelson had made many changes. The shelves were just as crowded, but the books and scrolls were far older. Some of the larger tomes had their own padlocks, others were chained shut. The curios of past voyages were long gone, and instead the tables and cabinets bore the tools and instruments of Mandelson's trade; curiously formed cups and bowls of wood and stone and metal, rods of crystal or rare woods, daggers both plain and ornate. A great crystal globe on a stand glimmered in one corner, and intricate instruments of brass and silver and other, less identifiable metals were everywhere. Green and purple fire burned in a metal bowl with no clear fuel providing the flame, and in the very centre of the room, surrounded by a floor-painted multi-coloured design of a five-pointed star inside a circle, was a waist high block of stone with a dark, stained depression in the top and bronze rings on either side.

The great window was covered by heavy dark crimson brocade curtains which were always drawn, leaving the room to be lit by the flickering light of the fire - which Nick had laid and lit almost every morning these past years, save on the hottest of summer days - and by the magickal lanterns dispersed around the walls. These provided a bright, white illumination, bathing their surroundings in a pitiless glare and throwing sharp-edged, dark shadows that reminded Nick of the shadows he had seen on the stable wall when the snuffbox had done... something... to Ashdown's letter. As he was manhandled into the centre of the circle inscribed in the floor he eyed those shadows uneasily, wondering whether they too would come to life, and if they did, whether the snuffbox would be able to restrain them, here at the heart of Mandelson's power.

Charles removed the rope binding Nick's wrists, replacing it with heavy bronze manacles whose chains he fastened to the rings on the sides of the stone block. As he felt the cold metal dig into his skin Nick could not help jerking futilely at his bonds, and Charles gave a harsh laugh.

"You won't get out of those in a hurry, ashface. Fight all you want though, it will be entertaining!"

Stepping back he left the prisoner alone, standing in the circle next to what Nick was convinced was an altar, and one dedicated to no beneficent power. He tugged at the chain once more, with no more success than the first time, then, with a quick look around to ensure that he was still on his own, he set one foot against the altar and tried a long, steady pull. Pausing at intervals to rest and ease his arms and shoulders, he pulled at the chain with all the strength he had, until his muscles were cracking and he was almost dizzy with the effort. He was not going to wait quietly here for whatever fate Lord Mandelson had in store for him! The long nightmare of the wizard's enchantment had finally been dispelled, and he would fight to his last breath to keep free of it! 

Tug... release. Tug.... release. He was just beginning to feel a flicker of hope, seeing some small movement in the staple fastening the chain to the stone, when the study door opened and Lord Mandelson entered, followed by his journeymen.

Nick quickly straightened up, letting go of the chain, but the wizard had clearly seen what he had been trying to do for a sardonic smile flickered across his thin features. "So, there is still some spirit left in you, boy. Of course there is. That is your Wanderer's blood. Ungovernable and unruly, just like the rest of your kind. Well, let us see if we can tame you!

"Charles... Alastair. To your places. A simple scrying spell first, I think..."

The two moved to positions around the edge of the circle, both careful not to cross the inscribed lines on the floor. Nick watched in silence as their master closed his eyes, breathed out and in, and intoned a series of meaningless - to Nick - syllables, moving his hands in an upward motion as if lifting something.

The inscribed circle began to glow a pure carmine red, brightening to a steady radiance... and then that radiance flashed briefly brighter. Curved walls sprang into being, following the lines of the circle on the floor, and suddenly Nick was standing in a hazy, red-tinged dome that seemed as fragile as a soap bubble. The top was just above his head; had his hands been free, he could have reached out and touched it, but he was not sure that would be the wise thing to do. These, presumably, were the 'wards' which Mandelson had mentioned...

... his surmise was confirmed mere moments later, when Mandelson opened his eyes and, after studying his work with narrow-eyed concentration, nodded once, a satisfied air about him.

"The wards are stable," he stated. "Charles, how do I know this?"

As Charles, with some hesitation and fumbling, began to answer the question, Nick set his teeth. He was being used as a, a teaching aid! Damn them - 

After Alastair too had been asked a question concerning the creation of the wards, Mandelson turned his attention back to the silent captive standing inside the circle.

"Now, gentlemen, " he said coolly. "Let us see what we can see. Alastair!"

"Master?"

"A scrying spell, the most powerful you can cast, if you please."

Alastair nodded, a determined expression settling over his face, and began to incant in a calm, commanding tone. Charles looked relieved rather than resentful, Nick noticed, and a flicker of amusement briefly lightened his dread. The whole household knew that Alastair was by far the more talented of the two journeymen and that Charles was jealous of his colleague's talent, but on this occasion the younger man seemed thankful rather than resentful! 

As for the scrying spell... _good luck with that,_ Nick thought, unable to resist cocking his head in challenge at Alastair. The journeyman saw the gesture, and anger flared through the concentration on his face, but although his voice sharpened and his whole body tensed with temper, he did not lose control of his spell. 

With a final cry in Imperial of "As I will it, so it must be!" Alastair thrust out one hand in a complicated, twisting gesture, fingers spread wide, and a flare of dull crimson flashed across the space between them, passing through the wards as if they were nought but the soap bubble they resembled.

Nick was unable to stop himself ducking away, even though he was hopeful that the snuffbox would protect him as it had earlier. His confidence proved well-founded. The eerie glow scattered just before it struck him, disappearing in a spray of red and crimson sparks.

"What -" 

"-Do not break the wards!"

A furious Alastair had started forward from his position at the edge of the circle, but his master's snapped order stopped him in his tracks and he settled quickly back into place, his face sullen and flushed with humiliation.

"Dear me. So, Alastair, perhaps your skills are not so great after all?" 

Mandelson's silky voice had Alastair flushing an even deeper red. He made no attempt to reply, contenting himself with glaring at the source of his humiliation and leaving Nick in no doubt of the fate in store for him if he was ever left to Alastair's tender mercies... he shivered but made himself meet Alastair's furious eyes, refusing to let himself be intimidated. He could fight back now, he reminded himself. He wasn't bound by his master's enchantments any more, he could fight, he could run... he was no longer their slave. 

Thanks to the snuffbox, warm and comforting at his waist.

Mandelson was studying him, narrow-eyed. Nick shifted uncomfortably and looked away, feeling as if those cold dark eyes were spearing into him, searching out all thoughts of his Godfather's gift like a hound on the scent... then the enchanter took a small hide bag from his pocket and, with a few words in that strange, guttural tongue which was like no language Nick had ever heard, emptied its contents into his hand and tossed them into the air.

A cloud of silvery, sandlike motes flew upwards and floated for a moment as if confused; then they drifted slowly but inexorably towards Nick's captive figure in a swirling, glittering cloud of dust. Mandelson began to chant, and after a moment the other two joined him, the chant growing in volume as the dust cloud approached its target.

Nick tried to back up, only to be brought up short by the chains about his wrists. Tugging futilely at his manacles Nick ducked and twisted away, but the cloud did not touch him. Instead, as the chanting grew faster and the voices harsher, the cloud stopped just short of his chest, then assumed a snakelike shape which whirled round him in a spiral from his head down to his feet. Then it spun back, shifted, and reformed into a spear, pointing straight at his waist, where the snuffbox was tucked into his shirt.

Nick felt the snuffbox - he was sure he wasn't imagining it - start to pulse, hot/cold, hot/cold. Every time that glittering spear of silver dust made a dart at where the box lay hidden, he felt a flare of heat; and was there a suggestion of anger about that heat? He thought so...

"So. The brat has a magical talisman, of Fae make. Now where did he get that...?" Mandelson's voice sounded tired but satisfied, and there was no sign of fatigue in his face or body. His journeymen, on the other hand, were sagging where they stood, and their faces were flushed and sheened with sweat. 

"Stolen, I'll wager," muttered Charles in response to his master's musing, then turned an even deeper red as Mandelson barked out a brief, scornful laugh.

"Not even the most accomplished thief - and you know as well as I that this lout is accomplished at nothing that requires any skill or wit - can steal a Fae-made talisman! It stays with its owner and will brook no attempts to remove it by force or trickery. Do at least _try_ to still that tongue of yours Charles, at least until you have given _some_ forethought to what you are saying!"

"Some memento of his guardian, perhaps, that he has but recently found?" volunteered Alastair.   
Nick concentrated on staying still and silent, watching and listening and refusing to succumb to the flare of exultation which washed through him at the news that no-one could take the snuffbox from him without his consent. It wouldn't be that simple; it never was, with Lord Mandelson...

"That is possible," Alistair's master nodded. "It matters not. He has it, and we cannot take it. Neither can we kill him, or send him through a Gate to the Other Place as I could do with a rival, say, for the Fae will know. And their revenge would be swift, extreme, and very final. So... he must be silenced, but without physical harm to him or to the talisman. 

"A pretty problem, is it not? And yet I think I have the solution. Alastair, is the _Red Rose_ still in port?"

Alastair looked confused but answered with commendable speed, "She sails on the dawn tide tomorrow." 

Why had Mandelson wanted to know that? 

Nick watched apprehensively as Mandelson snapped a series of orders which had his journeymen mixing three potions to banish their fatigue before making a series of preparations. At the edge of the wards surrounding the captive, another series of shapes formed, painted by Charles under Mandelson's demanding eye while Alastair ground a number of substances into dust, putting them into small bowls, setting them alight and placing them, with finicking care, at very precise points on Charles' sigils. When all was done Mandelson examined the completed work and gave one short nod of approbation, and both journeymen relaxed, exchanging looks of relief before hastening to their new positions at points of the new design.

Now what? Nick wondered. What was Mandelson going to do now? He'd already said he couldn't force Nick to give up the snuffbox, and neither could he kill him, or force him from the world in some other, wizardly fashion... and as long as Nick had the snuffbox Mandelson couldn't control him. _Oh, godfather,_ Nick couldn't help thinking, _If only you'd told me that from the beginning! I could be with David right now - all this would be over -_

His thoughts were interrupted. Mandelson was standing tall, one arm held up, holding a crystal rod skywards while the other arm pointed towards the earth, a rod of intricately-worked metal in its hand, and all Nick's senses came alert. He knew that pose, it was one all magicians used for a major magickal working... and the journeymen were in the same pose! 

Oh no. Mandelson was going to use all his power, and all of his journeymen's too; what would that do to Nick? To the snuffbox... what if Mandelson proved the more powerful - 

Mandelson began to incant, the words pouring from him in a powerful voice which echoed round the room until Nick could hear nothing else. He could see the journeymen's mouths opening and shutting, but no hint of their voices came to him through the thunder of Mandelson's... and something was indeed happening!

Nick's gaze jerked up, to the top of the hazy, soap bubble dome in which he was standing. Just below the peak, just above his head, a dark, sullenly glowing cloud was gathering. As the chanting continued it expanded, rolling turbulently about and striking against the wards as if trying to escape, and growing more agitated as its path was blocked. 

A bead of sweat ran down Mandelson's face and he raised his voice, the crystal rod quivering slightly as he poured himself into the spell. The dark cloud sank a little and grew less turbulent, but continued to grow until it was about the size of a yearling lamb, rolling and swirling above Nick. 

Nick stared upwards, fascinated and repelled all at once. He fancied he could see shapes moving and dancing in the darkly-glowing vapour, shapes which menaced and attracted in equal measure. One hand found its way to his waist and he clutched at the snuffbox through his shirt, hoping forlornly that it would save him from whatever this cloud-thing was going to do...

With one last shout Mandelson completed his incantation and thrust both rods out towards the cloud, then brought them down in a sweeping motion over Nick's body. Instantly, instinctively, Nick dropped to his knees and crouched down, covering his head with his manacled arms. He held still, waiting for he knew not what, feeling coolness flow down and across him. But it was coolness only; there was no touch of anything material, even so insubstantial a thing as water. Only that gentle breeze across his skin... 

Blinking, he found the courage from somewhere to open his eyes and look about him. The cloud was gone as if it had never been. Mandelson was eyeing him with an air of immense satisfaction. The journeymen were hanging on to each other to stay upright and breathing as hard as if they had been taking part in a race. And Nick? 

Nick slowly straightened up, puzzled. He felt no different, now that coolness had faded he felt just as he had before. What had that, that cloud-thing done to him?

Then he caught sight of his hands out of the corner of his eye and stared down at them, astounded.

Those arms; dark, broad, muscled, smooth... those were not his arms! The hands were long-fingered and narrow rather than his own square, work-scarred pair. Wonderingly he put his hands up to his face, but it felt just the same as always -

"The lout does not seem to understand what has happened to him. Natural, in one so slow of wit... show him, Charles."

Mandelson's gloating voice snapped Nick's attention back to his surroundings, and he saw Charles approaching with a mirror. The journeyman hesitated as he approached the wards, and his master sighed impatiently and nodded to Alastair to disperse them with a few words and a quick gesture of one rather drooping hand. 

Then Charles held the mirror up in front of Nick. 

It was an utterly strange and foreign face which looked back at him. Young, as he was, but darker, high-cheekboned and pointed-chinned, and with coarse, straight black hair above eyes that were almost black. That face looked as if it had been burnt by a sun far stronger than Goldeagle's, and the features bore no resemblance to any Traveller that Nick had ever seen.

"It is a visual illusion only, created just above the surface of your body and not actually touching your skin; so of course your talisman does not protect you." came Mandelson's gloating tones. "The other senses are not involved, but then they don't need to be. No-one will recognise my insolent lout of a pot boy or be interested in what you have to say... especially not where you're going."

And he smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

When David returned to camp with his fellow huntsmen, tired but satisfied from a successful hunt which had snagged two of the three stags that had been selected as quarry, he found the camp buzzing like an upturned anthill. As soon as he cleared the trees a squad of Palace guards ran towards him, their officer Sir Michael of Fabricant Meadows at their head, shouting something about 'Imperial wizards' and 'Lord Osborne'.

David's hands tightened on Alex's reins, causing the big hunter to snort and toss his head, sidestepping away from the loud humans running at him. Absently his rider calmed him, his attention fixed on what the guards were trying to say.

"What about George?" he demanded sharply, "Has anything happened to Lord Osborne, is he safe -"

"Oh yes, your Highness," Sir Michael hastened to reassure him, "Your ADC is perfectly all right, indeed he is more concerned for your safety! Might I ask, sir, that you go straight to your tent to see him? He will explain the situation."

David nodded curtly and dismounted, giving Alexandros's reins to the officer and asking that his steed be safely delivered to one of the Royal grooms, then hastened through the busy camp, dodging hurrying soldiers and Palace guards and panic-stricken courtiers alike. 

What was going on? he wondered. Everywhere he heard the cry of "The Prince! The Prince is in danger!" Or kidnapped, or ambushed, or even - from one particularly hysterical old courtier who had disapproved of David for years - murdered! This was shouted while Lord Bone was looking straight at the (allegedly) dead prince, but David felt no inclination to calm the old boy's fears. Best to get to George, and find out just what was going on!

When David reached his tent he swept back the flap to see Osborne leaning over a map, deep in discussion with officers from both the army and the Palace guard. The group included the highest ranked officers present in the camp, David noticed, even as he was demanding,

"Can anyone please tell me what is happening? What is the reason for all this -" he waved a hand at the panicked comings and goings outside the tent, "And why are you all treating my tent as a - as a map room!"

George looked up from the map spread across the small table where David was more accustomed to take his meals than plan military operations, and his pale face lit up.

"My prince! Thank all the powers you're safe!"

"Of course I'm safe," snapped David in irritation, "Why wouldn't I be? It was a perfectly ordinary hunt - we weren't even going after boar!"

George nodded dismissal at the officers, and with respectful bows to their prince the men and women trooped out of the tent, leaving George and David alone.

"Now," said David firmly, throwing himself down in his most comfortable camp chair and waving George to its companion, "What is all this about?"

George plunged into a description of the day's happenings and David sat and listened in increasing astonishment - until George reached the appearance of the Imperial journeyman, and what he'd had to say about the young intruder.

"Wanderer?" he demanded sharply. "George, did he really say that this... servant of theirs was of the Wandering Folk?" And then, when George nodded,

"What did this pot boy look like? What was his accent - did he sound like one of the Travellers?"

"That was the strange thing about it. He didn't sound like a servant _or_ a Wanderer. He sounded both educated and articulate. Not that he was permitted to say much, but his voice was, yes, was educated. If I'd heard him without seeing him I'd have thought him a wealthy merchant's son or perhaps from one of the Craftsman Guilds."

"His name? George, did you get his name?" David was leaning forward now, strained attention obvious in every sinew of his body, and George gasped.

"Ah, no! My prince, do you think that - that -"

"That this is my Nick? ... Oh George, I don't know whether to hope that it is or it isn't. If it is - to have been so close, and yet to miss him! And if it isn't - what false hope to give me, and at such a time!..."

Breaking off, David buried his face in his hands. 

"Tell me more," came his muffled voice. "Tell me everything you saw, everything you thought and felt. You're good at seeing things, George; now,"

David dropped his hands and George was shocked to see the welling tears in his friend's dark blue eyes, "Make me see too."

"So it was Nick," David said, desolate, a little later. "And I wasn't here!" 

Getting to his feet he moved aimlessly about the tent, eyes unseeing. "Oh, if only I'd stayed in camp today! If I'd been here when he - oh, George, I've, I've lost him again!" 

David's face twisted with pain, tears filling his eyes, and his voice wavered and broke, harsh sobs forcing themselves out before, with a gasp of effort, he wrestled himself back under control. A prince of the Torai was expected to show self-discipline at all times, and even though George was his closest friend David knew he should not give way in such a manner.

But George was showing no sign of disappointment at his friend's lack of self control. His eyes full of sympathy, he got up and put a comforting hand on David's shoulder.

"Courage, my prince," he said. "We have found him once, we can do so again. After all, we know so much more about him now!"

David nodded reluctantly. "I know. And yet... to belong to an Imperial, and one of such power! I... my fear for him is so much the greater now. Before I wished only to find him. Now, I pray that I find him alive and in good health, and not under the spell of this, this thaumaturge....

"Thaumaturge! Of course, I should recognise that term! It signifies an enchanter of sorts! 

"George, see to the packing up of my tent and belongings, will you? I must return to the castle and speak to our court wizard. Surely Bercow will be able to help me - he must!"

Suddenly alight with energy and determination, David strode out of the tent, calling for his horse, and George watched him go with an affectionate smile. Trust David; from despair to determination in one fell swoop. Action, for the prince, had always been the best cure for sadness or grief... 

Pulling back the tent flap, George called for the household servants. Time to get all packed and the camp cleared away and made good. All in all it had been a most eventful day, but it was time to go home. Where he fully intended to call on wizards, soldiers, - aye, right down to the merest private and the weakest hedge witch - if that was what it took to get to the bottom of this plot against the Torai Prince!

...

"Imperial thaumaturgy is indeed a most powerful branch of the Art."

Bercow turned from the table on which he had been grinding some purple-blue petals to colourful powder. He studied the impatient young man standing at the door to his chambers, his own eyes full of concern - and a certain amount of chagrin.

"I am not surprised that this... Journeyman Alistair... could Freeze time so efficiently and at such short notice. Clearly he has been well taught by his master - Mandelson, you say? What concerns me is that I received no hint, either of that cantrip or of the larger preparations that Mandelson must have set in place to aid him in his plans for you!"

"George said that you had detected someone testing the wards," said David, slowly entering the room and looking warily around at the large circular chamber that was the wizard's workspace at the Palace. 

The room was full of light from three great arched windows, all of which held a smooth, clear substance more transparent than any glass. The wooden floor was inlaid with an elaborate design based on a five-pointed star within a circle. Tall shelves, shaped to the curve of the room and crammed with colourful books and racks of scrolls, lined the walls between windows and door; a large crystal scrying globe on a gold and silver stand glowed and flickered silver and blue in front of the north window, and there were wide cabinets of wood, richly carved into shapes of trees and woodland animals, tucked in below the east and west windowsills. The cabinet tops were crowded with oddly shaped objects of wood, bone, horn and crystal, and with instruments both alchemickal and musickal. 

The large table in the centre of the room held alembics and other instruments of crystal, silver and bronze, and on a base of slate sat a small charcoal burner. A small stone bowl sat above the glowing charcoal, the pale green liquid within meditatively bubbling with small glopping sounds and giving off a refreshing scent of honey, apples and mint.

"The Lady Samantha spent too long swimming yesterday," the wizard said, seeing David sniffing appreciatively at the brazier as he passed it. "I am preparing a tincture to clear her head and ease her breathing."

"Is that not apothecary's work?" queried the prince, briefly diverted from his purpose in visiting the Court Wizard. Bercow smiled - the sudden, flashing white grin which made him look years younger and more akin to a mischievous sprite than a mature and powerful sorceror. 

"The composition of the tincture may be, but the charms I am adding as it forms are most definitely part of the sorceror's art - and it is those which will return the lady to her charming self within a few hours. I am very good at what I do, your Highness."

Bercow's eyes twinkled briefly with merriment before sobering once more. 

"Now - I did indeed sense someone testing the wards at the camp, or rather, one of my apprentices did so and informed me of the fact rather later than I would wish. By the time I scried for myself the testing had ceased, so I was unable to determine from whence it had come or who was responsible... though there was certainly a flavour of Imperial sorcery about it. An indication only, nothing definite!"

David nodded. "I am not so concerned about that," he said quickly, "I have no doubt that those whose business is the protection of Blueforest will be fully investigating the matter. My concern is for the young man who tried to warn us of Lord Mandelson's plans."

"How so?"

David took a deep breath. "You know that I announced that I had found my future consort after the Midsummer Ball, but that I... would have to search for him, as he'd left before the Ball finished."

"Yes indeed," said Bercow, his voice encouraging. "In fact I believe I saw you dancing with him. The tall young man in white, with the Fae-made mask? Where the Fae are concerned nothing is ever simple. There are always quests to complete, or questions to answer, or some magickal treasure to discover!"

David tried to smile, but it was a pale effort."Yes, that was Nick." he said. "He is not of the Fae, he was a child of the Wandering Folk, though he is now of Goldeagle."

Bercow nodded, showing no reaction to the news of Nick's ancestry, and David relaxed a little. Despite his fierce protestations to Nick he knew that there was much prejudice against the Wanderers. He was relieved that the Court Wizard seemed to share none of it.

Then the enchanter suddenly straightened, his eyes sharpening.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "The boy who tried to warn you! He is your consort-to-be!"

"Yes! That boy was Nick, I am certain of it! " cried David, "And now... oh, John, I am so scared for him. He serves in the household of an Imperial thaumaturge - a powerful Imperial thaumaturge, as you yourself have confirmed, and now they will know he tried to warn me! What will they do to him, to, to my love?" 

"You are right to be concerned," responded the wizard, making soothing gestures with both hands, "But not terrified. Do not despair! You have plighted your troth with this lad, have you not?"

"I - yes, yes I have. That very night, we exchanged... our hearts." Dave flushed and looked away, but Bercow only nodded, a satisfied air about him. 

"That is excellent news. So search your heart. It is one of the powers of your Torai blood, highness; if your love dies, or is killed, you will know, immediately, no matter how far away you are when it happens. Listen to your heart, not your fears! 

"Is your Nick still in this world?" 

David hesitated, searching inwards, bringing up a mental picture of Nick as he had been that night at the ball; standing slim and tall and fearless before him, those blue eyes meeting his and carrying Nick's heart with them...

"Yes," he said eventually, feeling a great wave of relief and straightening up as the weight of worry fell from his shoulders. "Yes, he is still alive... but why? And for how long?"

"Indeed. Imperial thaumaturges are not renowned for their kindness. Powerful practitioners as they are, they are efficient rather than compassionate.... they do not forgive and they do not forget. But no sorceror, of whatever branch of the Art, will make enemies of the Fae unnecessarily. And your Nick is... well, if not of the Fae himself -"

"I am sure he is not," interjected David, listening with strained attention.

"Well then - he must have friends among them, and powerful ones at that. That mask he was wearing at the ball is a magnificent piece of Fae work, with enchantments to turn away hostility, banish fear, encourage joy and delight... all intertwined. Wonderfully done. Nick's friend is no small or unimportant Fae. They may even be one of the Great Lords, though such rarely take much interest in humanity... my point is, Mandelson will not want to attract the hostile attention of such a one by hurting Nick, or removing him from the world by death or translocation. Such an action would instantly bring the wrath of the Fae down on his head and on all his household. No, he will have attempted to get Nick out of the way. Most probably by sending him as far away as possible."

"What if he's turned Nick into a, a frog or... an animal of some sort?"

Bercow muttered something under his breath. "I swear the Court Bards have given you some very strange ideas about Magick! Shape-changing spells are difficult to cast, require some very specific circumstances and cannot be imposed for long without harm to both caster and recipient. Also, there is no change in size or weight. So if Mandelson turned Nick into a frog, not only would Nick have to _want_ to become a frog, but he would be a very large frog indeed. Man-sized, in fact. So not much use as concealment! No, no,"

Bercow shook his head. "Mandelson will get Nick out of Goldeagle and as far away from Torai as he can. Pass his articles to a wandering merchant; sign him on to a trading ship heading overseas; perhaps even sell him in the Imperial slave markets. Easy enough to do, and nothing in that to bring the wrath of the Fae down on his head." 

David's face was a picture of conflicting emotions. "Nick's alive! But.... sold overseas? As a - _slave?_ That's, that's dreadful! How can the Imperials... but alive! But where?...

"John, how will I ever find him? He could be anywhere!"

The wizard held up one hand and the prince fell silent. It was a grave breach of court etiquette for anyone, even the Chief Wizard, to interrupt in such a way, but David was not inclined to object. Not to an enchanter of Bercow's reputation, and one, moreover, whom he knew to be entirely loyal to Blueforest.

"You are forgetting, your Highness, you have the mask that your love was wearing at the Ball. I will conduct a Seeing with that as the Focus."

"What if he is overseas? Can your scrying cross such a body of water?"

Bercow gave a short bark of laughter. "Your Nick is not the only one with friends and influence among the Fae! I will call in a few favours from the merfolk to enable my Seeing to pass through their lands.

"Now - the mask, if you please?"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Land ho!"

Nick leaned over the parapet of the crow's nest, one arm wrapped firmly round the mast against the dizzying plunging and rolling of the ship, cupped his other hand at his mouth and repeated his shout, directed at the small white expanse of the deck far below him.

"La-and HO!"

Captain Harold glanced up at the crow's nest, then raised his battered tricorne, revealing the knotted red headscarf he wore to protect his hairless pate from the fierce sun that ruled at these latitudes, and waved it in acknowledgement. A word to his first mate, Jack Straw, had the tough old sailor bellowing orders, and the deck filled with deckhands scurrying to take in sail as the steersman turned the wheel. The great merchanter swung smoothly into a ponderous turn, the white flash of spray splashing up over the sides as the prow turned towards the purple hills Nick could just see hovering just above the blue-silvered horizon on the very edge of his sight.

Nick straightened, setting his back against the mast which speared through the crow's nest to end in a spiderweb of ratlines and shrouds some way above the tiny barrel-shaped lookout, and watched the land creep ever closer. Eyes crinkling involuntarily against the exuberant breeze whipping his shaggy hair about his head, he gazed across the deep blue-and-turquoise shaded sea, watching the wave tops gleam silver in the sun as they rose and fell in the lazy swell of the deep water below the keel, shifting his balance automatically with the movement of the ship, and enjoying the feel of the sun and the salt breeze against his skin. 

How would it be, Nick wondered, to have his own ship? To be master of his destiny and go where he willed, David at his side? Travelling and trading, exploring the world and encountering wonders together... learning new tongues, meeting new people and seeing all the beauty and strangeness around them by day, and retiring to their cabin in the evening, to lie in each other's arms by night, close and safe and in their own private world....

... fierce longing for David shook him, a need so sharp that he choked back a cry, slapping a hand to his heart, half-expecting to feel a physical spear piercing his chest. But there was nothing, of course. Only that sudden, desperate need, that yearning which would strike him at unexpected moments, leaving him gasping and shaking with the strength of it... _Ah, David! To be with you again! To feel your strong arms around me, and see the love in your beautiful eyes, and know that look is for me alone...!_ He would find his way home again - somehow. He would!...

Then a tousled head appeared through the hole in the floor of the crow's nest and a gap-toothed grin was turned his way. 

"Cap'n wants ya!" the new arrival shouted over the flapping of the sails, clambering up as Nick moved back to give him room. 

Nick nodded and, rather than climbing back down the same way, grabbed a ratline, set one knee on the parapet of the crow's nest, and hopped over. Moving nimbly from shroud to spar to rigging, bare feet grasping at the wood and twisted rope almost as efficiently as his hands, he slid and swung his way from sail to shroud to nets, finally landing on the main deck with an easy bend of the knees before trotting aft to see what Master Mariner Harold, captain of the Imperial merchantman the _Red Rose_ , could want of his newest crew member.

All around him the crew of the _Rose_ were hard at work, but nevertheless there were nods and the odd friendly word as Nick passed; words which Nick returned in kind. Had it only been days? Nick wondered. Scarce more than a month at most, yet he found this life far preferable to the one he had led as Mandelson's scullery boy. Not at all what his old master had wanted... of course the thaumaturge had been unaware that Nick not only spoke fluent Imperial, but had befriended several members of this very ship's crew over the years. 

To be sure he had never met the captain, the canny Master Mariner Harold, once of the Imperial navy, or First Mate Jack Straw, as brown and tough as an old tree root, but there were plenty of others among the crew for whom he had run errands or with whom he had exchanged jokes and gossip during the ship's regular visits to Goldeagle. They might not recognise the changed appearance that Mandelson's illusion spell gave him, but Nick knew them, and had been able to rapidly establish friendly relations because of that knowledge.

So Mandelson had 'apprenticed' him... Selling him, in effect. Slavery might be illegal outside the Imperial lands but no Imperial merchant had ever let that stop him (or her). There were many ways round the proscription for those in the know; 'apprenticing' the one you wanted to sell, in exchange for a one-off 'Guild bounty' paid by the so-called apprentice's new master, was one of the most common, and this was the method Mandelson had adopted with Nick. 

The Imperial thaumaturge had informed Captain Harold that Nick needed a firm hand and strict discipline, and that he was never to be permitted to leave the ship. And the captain had listened, and agreed, and taken Nick into his crew, but there his compliance with Mandelson's... 'advice' had ceased. Shipboard discipline was indeed harsh, as it was on most Imperial ships, but it was fair, and Nick's knowledge of the language and his background in trade was helping to smooth his way in his new world. 

Somewhat to his own surprise, Nick found himself enjoying this new life. The sea, with all its moods and colours, awe-inspiring, constantly changing and always beautiful; the ship, moving and flexing around him like a living thing, carrying within it the warm, enclosed little world of shipboard life that was such a contrast to the sense of freedom and space to be found on deck or up in the rigging... The sun, the bright intricate beauty of the stars, the wide expanse of the cloud-swept sky, the challenge of a sudden summer squall, the joy and swing of being at full sail in a following wind... If it wasn't for David, he had sometimes found himself thinking these past weeks, he could actually have been happy as a sailor... but no. There was David, and there was his guardian. Now he knew there was a strong chance that Ashdown was alive he had to find him or determine his fate - and then there was the ache and the yearning filling his heart, that would not be eased until he had found his way back to his love. He would not - could not - desert either one!

"You wanted t'see me, captain?" Nick's Imperial carried the rough accents of the sailors from whom he had learned the tongue, and Captain Harold's reply was in the same vein. 

"Aye, lad. We make port in Roseheim in a bare few hours. You're to stay aboard - hear? Th' slave catchers'll have you quick as an eel in a trap, an' I'm not wanting to lose you to the bawdy houses. I paid good coin for you, and you've a way to go yet to make it worth my while! Now - get below!"

Harold's expression made it clear he was not to be dissuaded, and, hiding his disappointment Nick nodded and made for the narrow ladder leading down to the cargo hold, where he was accosted by the cargo-master and set to moving the smaller goods into positions where they could be most easily unloaded. It was hard, sweaty work in the semi-darkness of the hold, and Nick was barely conscious of the change in the ship's pitching and rolling which meant they had entered the calmer waters of the enclosed harbour of Roseheim, the city which had given its name both to the Empire and the ruling family of that empire alike.

Nick hefted the last bale, dragging it over to the hatch, then straightened, panting. He was dragging his forearm across his sweating forehead and wishing he had some cool water - or indeed any water, it didn't have to be that cool - when a stinging blow across his shoulders sent him staggering forward. Instinctively he flinched away, memories of the journeymen's bullying flashing into his head, and a harsh voice snapped,

"No lazin', slavey! You get that cargo ashore or you'll feel my rope, you slug!"

It was Bosun Prescott, a great roaring bully of a man who had been hounding Nick since he had been 'apprenticed'. Nick hurried to obey without attempting a response; he knew that the bosun wouldn't listen and that Nick would be beaten into silence before he got out more than a few words. If the Captain saw Nick unloading cargo he would know well enough who had ordered their newest crew member ashore, and if he made sure he was prompt in returning to the ship afterwards, he had a good chance of avoiding punishment!

As he staggered laboriously up and down the gangplank, across the quay and into the designated warehouse, bags and bales slung over his shoulders or with ungainly boxes in his arms, Nick eagerly snatched brief glimpses of the docks in this, his first foreign landfall. Much was familiar; the fishwives selling the morning's catch, their strident voices rising above the clamour around them; the merchants arguing settlement prices and fair values with the ship captains; the dockhands hauling cargo to and from the great warehouses looming at the back of the quays; and everywhere, the urchins running and shouting underfoot, weaving through the crowds with a fine disregard for their footing on the fish-slimy docks. All that was familiar enough from Goldeagle, but as Nick continued on his laden journeys he began to see the differences too. 

Some of those work gangs sweating and hauling cargo were ragged and scrawny, working with one nervous eye on a whip-carrying overseer. Slaves then, or convicts, rather than free men working for a wage. Not all the children slipping through the crowds were playing or at some childish mischief; some were begging, and others were picking pockets. 

And everywhere there were squads of soldiers, their bright red coats and the polished steel of the officers' helmets standing out against the weathered stone and wood of the buildings and the functional, workaday clothes of the merchants and the sailor folk.

Why so many soldiers? wondered Nick, as he started down the _Rose'_ s gangplank with his final load, a large sack of some exotic white grain from far away to the East. Surely keeping an eye on those young pickpockets and other mischief-makers was a task for the local constables...? If they even had constables here. Perhaps the Empire considered such things the preserve of the Army...

Nick had heard that life in the Imperial lands was far more regulated and controlled than was the norm in Goldeagle or its neighbours. The citizens of the Empire seemed content to have it so, however, and Nick gave a mental shrug and dismissed it from his thoughts as one of those strangenesses which made other lands and other peoples so fascinating. 

Entering the warehouse where the _Rose'_ s cargo was to be stored, he added his sack to the pile already there with a grateful sigh, straightening to his full lanky height and stretching his cramped muscles. The warehouse supervisor gave him a brisk nod, cutting a notch in her tally stick, and Nick turned eagerly away to get back to the _Red Rose_ before Captain Harold decided he had been ashore too long and sent men to haul him back willy-nilly.

The warehouse used by the _Rose_ was situated just behind Roseheim's largest and richest group of quays. Nick's merchant training told him that this meant that the owner of the _Red Rose_ , whoever that might be, would be one of the city's richest and most influential citizens, and _that_ meant that whoever it was would be a member of the Imperial Court. He wondered yet again if that owner might be Lord Mandelson... and again dismissed the speculation as meaningless. What was the point in thinking about Mandelson, and Goldeagle... and David? All such thoughts only emphasised his helplessness, his longing and his need to be with David, or - or see him, just once more...

Miserably, fighting his awareness of just how far away David seemed now, and how distant his homelands and that wonderful, enchanting ball seemed, not only in distance but in time, Nick stepped out of the echoing dimness of the warehouse into the bright sunlight, noise and bustle of the harbourside. He blinked, adjusting to the glare and glancing about to get his bearings and to check the quickest route back to the ship -

Nick's mouth went dry, the blood pounding in his ears as he stared; incredulous, hopeful, terrified of being wrong.

That man... that tall, sturdy blond figure, standing with a group as shabbily-dressed as he, chin jutting and shaggy eyebrows beetling in a fashion so familiar to Nick that he thought he might weep...

"Master Ashdown... P - Paddy...?"

The words were barely whispered, past Nick's incredulous, slowly-growing wonder; then, as the shaggy blond head turned, fierce eyes raking the bustling crowd, then came recognition.

"PADDY! My, my Lord - Sir - "

Forgetting all else, shouting with pure, overwhelming delight, Nick ran forward, threading his way past busy merchants and dockworkers alike as he closed the space between... then he slowed, a sliver of doubt creeping through his astonished joy.

His guardian had not reacted - at all - to that shouted name. Perhaps he had not heard? Nick called again, using the voice and tone he had learned when acting as lookout; tones harsh and direct enough to be heard through wind and wave would surely reach any sailor's ears, especially one standing only a few yards distant, but again his guardian (and it was indeed his guardian, Master Merchant Ashdown, Nick was convinced of it now) showed no reaction beyond the swift, blank glance of one reacting to a stranger's shout that had no meaning for him.

Nick knew his face would not be recognised, still under Mandelson's illusion spell as he was, but - but surely Ashdown would react to his own name, even if it came from the lips of a total stranger! Unless... Nick's steps slowed still further... unless Master Ashdown was still under enchantment after all... unless he still did not know himself, or his name... unless he was still, like Nick, subject to a thaumaturge's evil arts...

Then Nick would have to convince him! Determined again, sure of what he had to do, Nick broke into a run, intent on reaching Ashdown's side before his one-time guardian finished his conversation - or rather (judging by Ashdown's expression) his argument. 

Moving as quickly as he could manage on the crowded quayside Nick shifted, turned and twisted, moving past and through conversations and negotiations without a thought and getting closer to the group of men (he recognised them now, they were all members of the _Liberty Bird's_ old crew) that had their captain at their centre.

Nick was only one or two yards away now, but it seemed as if the dispute was coming to an end, and not in Ashdown's favour, judging by his guardian's frustrated expression. The Imperial, a ship's captain, judging by her dress, was shaking her head and stepping away, and Ashdown did not seem inclined to follow.

_No - mustn't lose him, can't bear to lose him again!_

"Sir!" Nick shouted, as he saw Ashdown turn away, shoulders set with anger, and begin to shepherd his companions away. "Honoured sir, I must speak with you, I, I have information -"

Other than a brief glance, Ashdown had not seemed inclined to pay any attention to the shabby foreign sailor which, Nick knew, was all he appeared to be. At the word 'information', however, he turned back, eyes suddenly bright with interest as Nick finally reached the group of Goldeagle crewmen. 

Sliding past two merchant women engaged in fierce dickering over some mislaid cargo, Nick put out one shaky hand. 'Master... Master Merchant Ashdown - my lord - P - Paddy," he stammered, eyes bright with joy and damp with tears, "I have been searching so long - I, I -" 

Then, even as his guardian stepped towards him, questions tumbling from Ashdown's lips and a hand reaching towards Nick's; as his own hands reached out, almost of their own accord; strong hands grabbed at Nick's shoulders with bruising force, pulling him back to shouts of, "Here he is, the little bastard!"

"NO!" screamed Nick, struggling free, only to be grasped again with even greater force. "No, I can't, please, just let me -"

Even as he fought, and even as Master Ashdown stepped forward, calling on his captors to "Be easy, let the poor lad speak!", First Officer Jack Straw's voice shouted from a few feet away, 

"What, didja think the cap'n was a fool because 'e treated yer fair, slavey? You're not doin' a runner from th' _Red Rose_ , not while Cap'n Harold owns yer!"

"NO!" screamed Nick again, as he was dragged away, kicking, biting, fighting every way he knew to get free, to reach his guardian and tell him; to let Ashdown know who he was, that he was a merchant from Goldeagle, that he had been, perhaps still was, under enchantment, he and his men alike...

... the idea came all at once, fully-formed, and Nick acted as quickly. Tearing one hand free he pulled savagely at the leather pouch hanging at his neck which held his few treasures; some coins, one or two tiny mementoes of his past... and the snuffbox. The snuffbox, which shielded him from the full misery of Mandelson's magick, which had given him the freedom to fight for his love and had returned his memories... 

The thong about his neck snapped; Nick, now fighting only to keep one arm and hand free, was dragged a few steps further back; and then, shouting, "Sir! Catch!" he threw the pouch.

Somehow, even as he was being dragged up the gangplank of the _Red Rose_ , he watched the small brown bag loop through the air. It flew, fell... and Ashdown put out one hand and snagged it with ease, holding it up with an enquiring air.

"Look within!" Nick cried, as he was bundled on board. "I swear, my lord, it will help! I -" - and then he was below, and could see no more.

And his world was once again bleak and empty, and love and memory were mere words...

But... Ashdown had the snuffbox.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Prince David was busy persuading George that it was past time his aide and the lovely Lady Frances announced a date for their wedding when a sudden shaft of loss lanced through him, a feeling so intense it was like physical pain.

The prince staggered back, gasping in shock, and his hand instinctively flashed to his chest. But there was no mark there -

"My prince! Are you all right? What happened?"

George's anxious question brought David out of himself. " I... I don't know, George," he said slowly. "I felt... a loss. As if I had lost something, or someone, I valued -"

George's pale features were suddenly horror-stricken. "My prince... David... Could it be your Nick? I hate to say it, but you are connected, Wizard Bercow has said so, and, well, a loss... "

David shook his head in immediate, instinctive rejection. "No! Nick is still alive, I am sure of it! But... yes. Something, something evil, has happened, or has been done to him. That is what I felt! Ah, Nick... such despair!" David's expressive eyes were filled with grief and pain. "I have to find him, George! I must - 

"I must speak to the wizard!"

When Bercow heard the prince's story his round face became grave. "This is ill news, your Highness," he said, waving David across to his scrying globe. "I have not yet been able to find any trace of young Nick. He is certainly not this side of the Ocean, and my merfolk friends have seen no-one of his description on any ship that has departed these lands recently. I was turning my attention to the far South, on the thought that Mandelson might perchance have sold the boy to the Southland slavers. But that is a far distant land indeed, and one from which it will take time to obtain any information.

And now you say Nick has been hurt, or wounded -"

"Not wounded, exactly," David said quietly. "or not physically at any rate. There was such a feeling of, of incredible desperation and loss... and now, nothing. Save only that I know he lives!"

"Have your investigators been able to elicit any response from the Goldeagle Council regarding Mandelson's plots?"

David shook his head, impatient. "No, of course not! Mandelson is one of their number and they refuse to believe that any Alderman could possibly be guilty of hostile designs on a neighbouring territory's heir! They simply won't listen to us, not even to Lord Hague!"

"Hm. It is a pity that Lord Carrington retired - he might have been able to win us a hearing," commented the wizard. David raised an enquiring eyebrow, and Bercow said, "Well, Lord Carrington was our chief diplomat the last time an Imperial-trained sorceror took power in Goldeagle. Do you not recall the affair of Lord Owen and Master Merchant Steel?"

"I vaguely recall something about that from my classes on Histories of Neighbouring Nations," admitted David. "I fear I've forgotten the details, however. Is it truly relevant now?"

"I think there are clear parallels insofar as Mandelson has won a seat on the ruling Council, as did Owen. He may be able to bring arcane influence to bear on his fellow Aldermen, as did Owen. And he is Imperial trained, just as Owen was. But there, I think, the similarities end."

Bercow considered, then added thoughtfully, "You know, my prince, in the Empire the practice of the magickal Arts is considered a profession, or a trade, like any other. It has its own Guild and regulations, and its practitioners are available for hire like any other craftsman. 

"Thaumaturges such as Mandelson and Owen are amongst the most powerful, and are skilled most especially in the manipulation, coercion and control of minds... and hearts."

"Ah! You're suggesting that this is why the Goldeagle Aldermen refuse to hear any ill of that, that Imperial... hedge-witch?"

"Indeed," nodded Bercow. "But questions remain. Why has Lord Mandelson taken such pains to establish himself in the town? And why Goldeagle, why not Blueforest, if you were always intended to be his target?

"I do not think that we yet know all, my prince. I am very much afraid that there is more to this. That there is another mover in this play, the one who has hired Lord Mandelson and his journeymen to undertake this task. It is they who is the ultimate driver in all this. Until we discover their identity..."

"I am still in danger," completed David, his voice impatient. "Very well, Wizard; consider me warned. Be sure I will inform Lord Osborne of your thoughts. As for me.. I am afraid I am not overly concerned about some mysterious enemy. 

"I just want to find my Nick, and bring him home. Please, John; I beg you, please do all you can!" 

When David left Bercow, once again bent over his scrying globe, to work again on contacting his friends among the merfolk for any news, he found George waiting for him. As they walked together towards the stables David told his friend of Bercow's idea that Mandelson was working for someone else, as yet unknown, and George nodded.

"Yes, I had heard that thaumaturges worked for hire. Very expensive and specialist hire, but hire nonetheless. I fear that we can do little about it now, however. We have no spies in Mandelson's household, and until we convince the good burghers of Goldeagle that Mandelson has manipulated them as cleverly as ever Owen did there is little we can do. Our wizards might be able to influence them -"

"- oh, don't be ridiculous, George! Wizard Bercow would never consent to such a thing, and rightly so! It is hardly Goldeagle's fault that they have been caught up in Mandelson's plotting. We are not going to jeopardise Blueforest's friendship with them over some Imperial's scheming!"

Angrily David flung open the door to the courtyard and stormed through, and George hurried after. "Of course not, my prince. I was only explaining why we can only act indirectly until we can persuade the Council of Mandelson's guilt. I have agents, armed with the best talismans Bercow can construct, keeping watch on Mandelson's house.

"I have just had news from Goldeagle's docks which might provide a small clue as to Nick's fate, though. 

"I received a report of Mandelson selling a young man to the captain of an Imperial ship docked there about a month ago. That is around the right time, but the young lad concerned was not Nick; the physical description is completely different. However, if Mandelson has disposed of one youngster that way, he might have disposed of others."

David had also heard the reports, and through his disappointment that the unfortunate captive was not Nick, and his sickness that such trades still took place, he nodded. 

"A good thought, George," he agreed. "My apologies for snapping at you. It's just that I am so very scared for him! When I think of what has been done to him, what that wizard might still do... I swear, if it would ensure his return... if it would give his life back to him... I would give him up. I would give up all thoughts of marriage, all claim to Nick's love, if by doing so I could ensure his return, and his happiness."

"Well of course," said George firmly. "Your love is true, and his happiness means more to you than your own. That is as it should be. But don't give up. We will find him, David. Only have faith!"

"Easy for you to say," muttered David. "Here I am, heir to one of the most powerful Duchies this side of the Ocean, and all I can do is sit here while wizards and agents do my hunting for me! This is not -"

David was looking up at the cloudless, deep blue expanse of sky above the castle walls, his eyes angry and his whole body strung wire-taut with frustration, when he was interrupted. Far above them a great bird, an eagle perhaps, or one of the rare northern rocs, had been soaring and circling through the summer air. Now, all at once, it gave a hoarse scream, as if calling for attention. Swinging so low over the castle that it seemed barely to miss the walls, it dropped a small object that glinted as it fell and made a chinking metallic sound as it landed, bouncing and rolling to a stop at David's feet. 

Bending, David immediately picked it up despite George's attempt to prevent him, and stood turning it over and over in his narrow fingers, watching it sparkle and glint oddly bright in the muted sunlight of the courtyard. 

George recognised it immediately as one of the trade tokens used by merchants on the Goldeagle docks in lieu of coin. Made of base metal and bearing the name of the issuing merchant, backed by the emblem of the Merchants' Guild on the reverse, they could be exchanged for an equivalent amount of coin in any overseas port where the Guild had an office. This particular coin bore the name of a merchant George found vaguely familiar, a Goldeagle trader who had been lost at sea several years previously.

The prince was studying the coin with intent concentration, as befitted such an obviously Fae-borne token. Then he looked up, his eyes no longer frustrated or angry but excited and eager, and grinned at his friend.

George felt a flicker of unease. What was going through David's head now?

"My Prince?" he questioned, warily.

David grinned at him. "You won't like this at all, George, but I'm afraid I'm going to pull rank on you and insist," he said.

"I've had much the same training as our agents, and I am just as familiar with Goldeagle harbour and the oceanside docks as they are. I am going to insist that I take part in this watching of Imperial ships!"

To every argument a horrified George came up with, David had a counter. Yes, Goldeagle was Mandelson's home territory; so the thaumaturge would never expect David to go anywhere near it. Yes, undertaking a lowly job like watching the docks was not a task anyone would expect a Torai of the Bloodline to undertake; again, with his Imperial background, Mandelson would never anticipate a prince getting involved with any such lowly activity. As for the task probably being pointless, and achieving nothing of value in their search for Nick or for the unknown behind the plot against the prince -

David shook his head. "No, George. Wizard Bercow has told me to listen to my heart... well, my heart is telling me, through this token, to be at those docks, to wait there, and to watch. Why, or for whom... I do not know. Not for Nick! But I know - I _know_ , George, in here -" the prince pressed one hand to his chest "- that if I go to Goldeagle docks, and wait - I will see something that will help me. Perhaps help all of us, the town of Goldeagle included!"

...

When David arrived at Goldeagle docks some weeks later the sun was still below the horizon, but already the quays and docksides were a hive of activity. The prince smiled to himself, appreciating the lively scene before him as he ambled his way onto the harbourside from the wide stone-paved road that led to Goldeagle's central market-place. He loved Blueforest, and Torai Town, but he had always enjoyed the noise, colour and excitement of Goldeagle harbour. 

It seemed that several ships had arrived in the pre-dawn, and were just now mooring up and preparing to unload their cargo. Everywhere he looked, David could see merchants and teams of dockhands, busily negotiating terms for the unloading of the newly-arrived cargo, followed perhaps by the subsequent reloading of a new cargo. Crewmen were throwing out mooring lines, and gangplanks were being swung out and tied into place on the docksides. 

Merchants were standing in front of their warehouses, invoices and cargo manifests to hand, and small traders were hastily opening up their stalls. Only the fish market was quiet - the fishing fleet was not due in for another hour yet, so the strident voices of the fishwives selling the fresh catches from off the boats were not yet to be heard. It made the rest of the scene sound oddly muted, David decided, as he meandered, deliberately casual, towards the post he had selected to watch from today, the end of a stone wall partly obscured by one of the trade stalls. 

From that position he had a perfect view of the overseas docks, where the merchantmen from the Empire, the far South, and the Eastern lands all moored. He could see every ship there but thanks to the nearby stall selling fresh fruit and cool drinks, they could not see him. He had several posts scattered around the dockside, but this one was his favourite.

For his self-imposed task the prince had settled on a well-worn but good quality outfit in sober grey and brown, of the kind a minor craftsman or trader might wear. He looked, he hoped, solid, dependable, and instantly forgettable, and he was doing his best to radiate the air of a man at a loose end, content to spend his plentiful free time watching the world go by. 

Settling down on his wall, he purchased a tankard of cool fruit juice from the nearby stall and set himself to another day's observation.

There was a new Imperial ship in, he noticed, and a tingle of anticipation ran through him. Maybe this would be the one...? David did not know what he was waiting for, but he had a strong feeling that whatever-it-was would arrive on an Imperial ship. This new ship from Roseheim was one of their smaller trading ships, not one of the great merchantmen that carried most of the Empire's trade. Even as David studied the new arrival the first bits of cargo began to be hauled ashore, crewmen and dockhands mingling as bags, boxes and crates were passed hand to hand to be piled haphazardly on the quay. 

An independent trader, then, probably with a captain-owner, carrying goods for different merchants. Hm... David straightened, studying the ship - the _Freedom's Banner_ (why was it so often the smallest ships that had the most vainglorious names?). Often these small independent ships carried passengers as well as cargo... could he be waiting for a some _one_ rather than a some _thing_?

On the thought he saw a group of men, led by a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weatherbeaten complexion and flyaway grey-blond hair, appear at the top of the gangplank and begin to disembark, moving with an ease on the swaying, unsteady footing that betrayed their sea-going origins. As soon as their feet touched the stone of the quay the group flung their arms about each other, weeping. Some even fell to their knees to kiss the ground...

These newly-arrived sailors caused something of a sensation. All around David the harbour folk were pointing and gasping, and suddenly two women ran forward, shrieking, "Danny! It's our Danny - after all these years -" and one of the newly-disembarked, a tall red-headed man, ran forward in his turn, tears pouring down his cheeks, to embrace them.

The two women were followed by others, men, women, lanky teenagers, all weeping with joy, all laying claim to one of the group of new arrivals. David saw several youngsters race away into the centre of town to spread the news and knew that before very long the whole of Goldeagle would be a-buzz, celebrating the news of these men's return.

"And who might you be, young man, and why are you watching us so closely?" enquired a gruff voice.

David jumped and turned, to see the tall blond man who seemed to be the leader of the returned Goldeagle sailors standing a few feet away. As David blinked, cursing himself silently for being so distracted that he had failed to notice the man approaching, he saw one bushy eyebrow arch and the broad, weatherbeaten face harden, and unaccountably he felt himself blush. The heir of Blueforest put out of countenance by a nameless Goldeagle sailor! His grandmother would be horrified - but David wasn't. Whoever this man was, he merited David's respect - of that the prince was sure.

"My apologies, honoured sir," David said, with as much self-possession as he could muster. He was preparing to spin a tale about waiting for a relative when he met a steely grey-blue gaze. Clear grey and sharp as needles, those eyes missed little and mistook even less. This was not a time for prevarication.

David took a deep breath. "I... I'm waiting for someone. Or something. I don't know which. Someone - I think the Fae - sent me a .. a message."

Those bristling eyebrows shot up. "You are the one Simon's messenger found? Huh. Couldn't he find a good honest Goldeagle citizen instead of some Blueforest - Torai? I'll never understand the Fae! But there - no doubt he had his reasons. 

"Well come along boy, come along, we've no time to waste!"

– And with those words David found himself hurrying along at the side of his new acquaintance while the latter flung a series of short, snappy questions and comments his way which he did his best to answer. Yes, the Duchy of Blueforest was still ruled by the Iron Lady and Goldeagle by the Town Council. Yes, there had been some trouble recently; there had been an attempt to kidnap the heir to the Duchy, an attempt that had used (it was rumoured) Imperial magick -

The stranger stopped abruptly, swinging round so fast that David took an apprehensive step back. 

"Imperial magick you say? Do the rumours name the one responsible?"

David gulped, clutching one hand about the talisman Bercow had given him and the other about the Fae token that had been dropped at his feet and sent him to Goldeagle. He trusted the Court Wizard, of course he did, but everything he had read and heard since Nick had saved him had brought him to a realisation of just how powerful thaumaturges were. What if Lord Mandelson heard David mentioning his name, and found him here, a bare few streets away from Mandelson's own house?

David's new acquaintance glared at him for a moment, then his gaze softened and a gleam of humour lit his face. "Worried he might hear you, eh? Very sensible, lad, but if you have that Fae's token about you there's no danger of that!"

"Mandelson!" David blurted. "Honoured sir, it was Lord Mandelson, and his two journeymen," the other man muttered something about knowing them of old even as the prince continued, "The attempt failed because of a lamed horse, but they could have tried again, so easily, if not for the bravery of their kitchen lad, who risked all to give warning!"

"Brave indeed," said his companion seriously. "To stand against such a powerful magician, and his own master... what has happened to the boy?"

David shook his head miserably. "No-one knows," he whispered, and found tears in his eyes as his worry and fear for Nick again overcame him. He turned his head away, fighting for control, and felt a strong, comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You are very concerned for this... kitchen lad," said that rough, warm voice. "Do you know him?"

David sniffed and swallowed. "He is my love," he said fiercely. "I care not that he is but a kitchen boy, and of the Wanderers at that. I know him to be brave and true, bright and kind and loving, and we plighted our troth at Midsummer. And now... he is gone, no-one knows where except that, that Imperial... weasel!"

The hand on his shoulder had tightened almost to bruising when David had mentioned the Wandering Folk. "His name!" the stranger demanded. "What is his name!"

"Nick," said David on a longing sigh, looking away from the other's fierce eyes. "I know no more name than that, but I hoped, I still hope! soon to give him mine..."

There was a wordless exclamation from the other, then some nautical terms which David had never heard before, followed by, "...damn wizard! Taking Nick and turning him into a, a scullery drudge! Such cruelty! That twisted - just because he could, I'll be bound! My joy, my poor lad - a better boy never walked this earth!

"Oh, he'll pay for this the - SIMON! _SIMON! SIMON!"_

Turning away from a blinking, astonished David, the furious stranger had taken two strides into the centre of the road, shaking his fists at the sky while his words gradually grew louder until he was bellowing with fury. Finally he stood stock still, flung his head back, and shouted that name at the sky, each repeat louder than the one before until David's ears were ringing.

The wide road between the harbour and the main market place was still very quiet, it being only just after dawn; but now a total silence fell. David looked around, feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he saw a man pulling a cart paused in mid-step. Across the road a woman had been dropping the shutters on her shop front; the shutters were frozen in mid-air, the woman's arm caught in mid-motion. And a sparrow taking flight from a scatter of oats was motionless, caught like a fly in amber, a few wingbeats above the ground...

"Er... Honoured sir?"

David was never sure afterwards what he was going to say, but even as the words escaped he was interrupted.

The sun was still low, and the tall houses lining both sides of Market Street cast their long shadows right across the road so David and his companion had been walking in the chill of pre-dawn shade. But all at once it seemed as if the sun had reached its zenith; a very small, very gentle sun, which appeared above their heads in a whirl of golden light and spun down tornado fashion to touch ground in front of the stranger. 

The spinning intensified; the whirling shape narrowed and lengthened until it was man-height; and the light glowed briefly brighter and then disappeared, taking the miniature whirlwind with it. Around them, sound came back into the world, and time moved on again. The shop shutters slammed down onto their supports; the man plodded forward with his cart; and the sparrow flew skyward.

Standing where the whirlwind had glowed and spun was a tall, thin man in strangely-cut, pale garments which looked somehow vaguely crumpled. As the new arrival smiled happily at the blond stranger David saw that the ears revealed by the thin fine hair had slight but definite tips... so, this was a Fae then. As if he hadn't guessed already...

"Well met, Paddy!" the Fae was saying cheerfully, but David's new acquaintance was having none of it.

"Don't you take that tone with me, Simon! When I had to go overseas I asked you to keep an eye on my boy, and you promised me - _promised_ me - that you would! And now I find that Nick, my Nick, has been a drudge and a pot boy, doing menial work in the very house he once called home, beaten, taunted, friendless -"

The man called Paddy had choked up by this point, tears of furious reproach running down his weathered cheeks, and the Fae's mobile features changed, radiating sadness and apology.

"Yes, it is true my friend, I failed in my charge, and when I discovered the true state of affairs they were beyond my powers to make right. You know that we Fae are only permitted to interfere in the lives of humans within certain very firmly set boundaries, and one of the strictest laws concerns our dealings with wizards. We cannot interfere with wizards, not in any direct way! Fae powers and the Magickal Arts... do not combine well.

"So when I discovered, on Nick's coming of age, that the poor lad was not only being kept as a pot boy but was under both Control Ward and the Homing Bind, both among the most powerful of Thaumaturgical spells... I could only give him the tools to change his own fate, I could not break that control for him."

"It was you! You gave Nick the ball mask!"

Simon gave David a warm smile. "Yes indeed. It was the desire of his heart, to attend the Midsummer Ball, for once to have a night of happiness and fun in a bleak existence... and to perhaps be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of you from afar. Bless the boy, he never had any thought that his love for you might be returned; he thinks too little of himself for that, but I... yes, I believed that your fates might be intertwined. I am pleased to see that I was correct, Prince."

David saw Paddy's reaction to this revelation of his identity out of the corner of his eye even as he said, blushing, "That ball... meeting Nick... it was the most wonderful night of my life. I am truly grateful, Fae Lord, for your help in causing both of us to meet the one who we are meant to be with... but please, can you not also help us now?" 

The Fae was solemn again. "I had no idea that the days had passed by so swiftly!" he said. "Really, things move so fast in the mortal realms, how do you all manage? But when Paddy was given the snuffbox I sensed his presence and knew therefore that something more had gone amiss for Nick.

"I had been searching for you since Midsummer," he added to a Paddy rapidly recovering his composure. "Nick told me you were missing, and that he was in the power of this... Thaumaturge Mandelson."

Fae Simon uttered the name with such distaste that even Paddy gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. 

"Mandelson is making powerful enemies," he said. "Good! I think those enemies need to combine forces. Do you not agree, Prince?"

David nodded hastily, still coming to terms with the realisation that this formidable man was Nick's family, and that, if all went well, he would one day be David's father-in-law. 

On the whole, he found the prospect moderately terrifying...

"Good!" Paddy was saying. "Then let us go to Castle Torai. I have information for Blueforest and I think you will have information for me. Simon, you can start making up for your neglect of my ward by getting us to Torai as quickly as you can."

Simon brightened. "Of course!" he said eagerly. "My carriage will get you there faster than any mortal steed; I will call her!"

Paddy muttered something under his breath about 'that yellow monstrosity' but nodded, then turned to David. 

"Be polite," he said in an undertone. "It will at least be fast..."

...

At Torai (once he had recovered from the strange dizziness brought on by travel in the outlandish Fae 'carriage') David introduced Paddy and the Fae to Wizard Bercow and to George. Master Merchant Ashdown , for so he formally introduced himself, then told his story. And David understood just why Ashdown had insisted on coming to Castle Torai.

"I had been called away by the news that my biggest ship, the flagship of my trading fleet, had been lost at sea in Imperial waters. I naturally took ship to Roseheim as soon as I could, to see if any of the crew had survived and if so, to bring them home. 

"However when I reached the Imperial capital I found both ship and crew in perfect health and most surprised to see me! I therefore began to make plans for my immediate return, for I was suspicious of this spurious message...

"Then an Imperial Court noble called Lord Mandelson contacted me, wishing to purchase the entire cargo of the ' _Liberty Bird_ ' and making an initial offer. Naturally we arranged to meet, to conduct negotiations towards a mutually agreeable price, but again I was suspicious. This offer seemed too pat, was coming in too hard on the heels of the false rumour which had brought me to Roseheim in the first place.

"So before visiting Mandelson at his town house, I contacted a few old acquaintances and fellow members of my Guild, asking about him. I heard nothing to truly confirm my suspicions, but there were one or two things which made me... uneasy, to say the least. For a start, why was an Imperial Thaumaturge buying goods in bulk? The _'Bird_ 's cargo had no magickal application, so far as I was aware!

"And then there was the rumour that Mandelson had taken on a commission from someone at Court. And his employer was not another Imperial, as is usual, but was rather from overseas. 

"In fact, Lord Mandelson was rumoured to have accepted a commission from a Torai, of the Duchy of Blueforest!"

"What!"

The exclamation came from George and David together, but Wizard Bercow was not far behind. United in disbelief, the three Torai glared at Ashdown, who simply stared back, then raised one quizzical eyebrow.

"I am not suprised by your scepticism," he said, his voice grave. "But consider; Thaumaturges work for hire. Lord Mandelson has no connection with either Goldeagle or Blueforest, so it follows that it must be his employer who possesses that connection. It is Mandelson who has taken over my estate, but he has not continued in trade and has sold the warehouses and the trading fleet. So he was not interested in becoming a merchant! 

"All his efforts since he settled here have been towards winning a social position in Goldeagle which would ensure his inclusion in any guest lists for social events held by the great and the good, such as ... the Torai Court, say?

"I put it to you, gentlemen, that all of Mandelson's efforts have been towards one goal, gaining control of your prince here," Ashdown nodded cursorily towards the silent, intent David, "As he was hired to do!

"I fear you have a traitor in your ranks, gentlemen."

There was a thoughtful silence before David stirred. "All this is most interesting," he observed, "And I am sure that our Eyes and Ears will begin to look into this matter immediately." 

He looked over at George, raising his eyebrows, but his friend was already getting to his feet. 

"We will indeed look into this straight away," he informed them. "Master Merchant, I thank you. My prince," he looked back at David, his pale face intent, "I hope to have something to report to you and your grandmother very soon. 

"My liege... Master Ashdown... Honoured Wizard." Bowing, George left the room, almost running in his desire to begin investigating Ashdown's astonishing news.

The prince turned back to the Goldeagle man sitting calmly at the far end of the table.

"So you have had your surprise, and it has had all the impact you could wish," he said drily. "But what happened to you next?" 

Despite himself, a note of anger crept into his voice. "Why did you leave Nick to Mandelson's tender mercies all these years?"

Ashdown flushed. "It was not deliberate, I assure you!" His face bore an expression of mingled guilt and chagrin. "Ever since I found out what that weasel has been inflicting on my boy, I -"

Deliberately he cut himself off and took a deep breath. 

"You have a right to know," he said levelly to David, as if they were the only two people in the room. "Very well... I had found nothing to justify my suspicions of Mandelson. After all, what could a plot against Blueforest have to do with me or mine? So I went to meet him as arranged.

"And that is all I remember."

"Ah." For the first time Bercow entered the conversation. "A cantrip of memory loss, or a Control Wand?"

"He used a Control Wand on Nick, according to your Fae friend," David said to Ashdown. The merchant nodded. 

"I am aware. I think he used something a little different on me... I woke a few weeks ago, to find myself working on Roseheim docks as a foreman. My gang of dockers were my old crew, and they all recovered their memories at the same time as I... but none of us knew our names or our histories, only that we were from Goldeagle. Our names were restored to us later..."

"Hm," Bercow said. "A Zone of Influence then, or something similar. It will have been cast using a possession of yours as a link; an article of clothing perhaps, or a letter -"

"I did send him a letter confirming the sale of the cargo," Ashdown said, nodding, and Bercow nodded back with a satisfied air. David stirred restlessly. 

"This is getting us no nearer to finding Nick!"

Ashdown blinked. "But, but is he not serving as a pot boy at Mandelson's house, the one that was mine, in Goldeagle? Is that not why your wizard is here, to counsel us on the ways in which we can release him, and the rest of the town, from Mandelson's malevolent influence?"

"No!" David almost yelled. "When Nick warned us of the plot against me, Mandelson found out and has sent him away, we don't know where, no-one can find him, Wizard Bercow cannot scry for him - I, I thought you would know where he was, that your Fae -"

Ashdown looked horror-stricken. "But... is he even still alive? Oh, my boy -"

"He lives, I am sure," David hastened to assure him. "We are connected, master merchant. I would know if he was dead, or even if he had been sent elsewhere through some Magickal Gate. That is the gift of my Torai blood. Nick lives, and is in this world."

Ashdown eyed him a moment longer, questioning. David met his gaze, his own as confident as he could make it, and Bercow nodded in immediate agreement. After a moment Ashdown relaxed, though worry and concern were still writ large on his face. "Very well," he said. "I will trust your belief that Nick is alive... but where?"

"Can Simon not find him?"

"We can ask," said Ashdown doubtfully in answer to the prince's question. "While he is still conscience-stricken over not keeping his word to me, at any rate. How long the chastening effect of that will last however -! The Fae can be chancy allies."

...

The Fae indeed arrived as soon as Ashdown went out into the castle gardens, where a light breeze was blowing, and called him, but when asked where Nick might be his long face fell. 

"I'm sorry, Paddy," he said sadly, "I have no idea. He is beyond my sight. Since he gave away my snuffbox I cannot find him."

"Snuffbox?" asked David and Ashdown together. Simon explained; that it negated Mandelson's magic and that it could not be taken from Nick without his consent, and Ashdown gasped. 

"The snuffbox? _This_ snuffbox?"

"Well, yes," responded Simon, puzzlement clear in his voice as Paddy held out a beautifully enamelled blue and yellow, tiny wrought gold box. "I thought you knew. Nick must have given it to that unknown sailor who passed it on to you."

"No," said Paddy grimly, staring down at the small bright box in the palm of his hand. "When that young sailor was calling me, by name... when he was fighting to reach me... he knew me, knew me well, and I assumed then that when I got my name back I would know him too... then he threw me the box, and I remembered everything. My name, my crew's names, our history...

"And yet he was still strange to me. That sailor's face... I knew I had never seen him before in my life. And is that not peculiar, when he seemingly knew me so well?"

"You are saying that Mandelson put a seeming on Nick, to change his appearance?" The Fae looked confused - and offended. "Not possible, not while Nick had my talisman!"

"You did say before that wizard's magick and the powers of the Fae did not mix well," David put in, as diplomatically as possible. He was remembering George's report of the strange young man sold to the Imperial ship... "Shall we ask Wizard Bercow?"

When the situation was explained to him the court Wizard looked thoughtful. "It is not impossible, to cast a seeming on one protected by the Fae," he allowed, "But it is extremely difficult. It takes a supremely skilled practitioner of the Art and a great deal of power."

"Well, we know Mandelson is skilled," David pointed out, "And he has those two journeymen of his..."

Reluctantly the wizard nodded. "Yes, that might indeed have been done," he allowed reluctantly, and sighed. "I must apologise, your Highness. I had not considered this possibility at all, and yet it suits what I have learned of Mandelson. At all times he prefers subtlety over brute force, and the indirect and complex over the straightforward or the simple."

"No-one else had thought of it either," David pointed out, but Bercow shook his head, his face wreathed in self-directed anger.

"No, my prince. I am your Court Wizard, I am not only supposed to be skilled in my chosen field, I should also be knowledgeable in all branches of the Art, including those I do not practice! It was for me to consider all the possible paths Mandelson might take, not just the most likely one!

"And so I have wasted time and resources looking for one human with a particular cast of features, instead of casting my net more widely, to look for all those with signs of enchantment about them, or..."

"Enough!" snapped Ashdown. "We waste time in blaming ourselves!"

"I agree," David intervened. "John, can you not then scry for someone who looks the way Ashdown has described? Or even better, to search out all those with signs of enchantment about them, if your merfolk can see those?"

Bercow was nodding eagerly, turning towards his scrying globe even as David spoke.

"Yes, yes, my prince, I will be about it right away, I am sure that this time..."

His voice faded into absorbed silence as he bent over his great globe, and David and Ashdown settled down to wait, as patiently as they could - which was, not at all.

The merfolk's replies returned even more quickly than Bercow anticipated, and the news was both good and bad. The young man sold at Goldeagle docks was indeed the same young man who had given the snuffbox to Ashdown. The one who had called Ashdown by name, and had seemed to know him...

"It was Nick," the merchant said, suddenly looking old and grey. "It was my boy, and I did not know him! And now he is back in Mandelson's power, without even the snuffbox to help him!"

He broke down in tears, and David wept with him, each finding comfort in the presence of another who loved the young man who had sacrificed so much, for his love and for his guardian.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

When the _Red Rose_ sailed into Goldeagle port on the wings of the first of the autumn storms, Captain Harold was not pleased to see Lord Mandelson and his two journeymen standing on the docks waiting for him. He did not have much attention to spare for the witchy, however, engaged as he was with ensuring the _Rose_ 's safe maneouvring into dock with a damaged tiller and a broken fore mast.

The fierce sou' wester had snapped the top few foot of mast clean away, and the rigging for the fore tops'l had gone with it. The captain was only thankful that his youngest crew member had not gone too; he had been up there tying down the sail only minutes before the storm had hit, and had barely reached the deck before the first gust of wind had struck. Not that the boy had seemed much shaken; he was a quiet and sullen lad these days, not seeming to care whether he lived or died. Very different from the bright and eager boy that the witchy had sold him - at these very docks too!

No sooner had they docked than the thaumaturge boarded, ignoring all attempts from Captain Harald's officers to block his way. Harold watched him come, refusing to meet him halfway, and by the time Mandelson had climbed the ladder to the poop deck his dark eyes were snapping with ill-disguised irritation.

"Captain."

"My Lord."

Harold waited as long as he dared before asking his visitor's business, but abruptly tiring of the game - and remembering that it could be unwise to anger those skilled in the arts of magick - he said simply,

"So, milord, why be you here?"

Mandelson's irritation vanished, to be replaced by his usual cold civility. Sweeping an insincere bow, he said in silky tones,

" _So_ pleased you have finally remembered your manners, Captain. But as a fellow Imperial among these outland barbarians, I am minded to let it go... assuming that we can agree good terms."

"Good terms fer what?"

"That should be 'for whom'," Mandelson told him. "That slave boy I sold you some months ago - I do hope that he is still on board?"

Captain Harold snorted. "Him! Yes, he's still 'ere. Miserable little bastard that he be. Good worker though, an' got the makin's of a decent sailor."

"Do not attempt to talk up the price," Mandelson's voice was cold. "I well know that the lout has no talent and no skills for ought beyond trouble making and treachery.

"However, circumstances now require that I bring him back - regrettably - into my household where I can keep him under my eye. I will therefore buy him from you for the price you gave me.

"Please do not attempt to bargain. It will not turn out well for you..."

 

When Nick was hauled out of the hold and bundled down the gangplank with no explanation beyond a hurried, "Sorry matey, the cap'n's sold yer", he felt little shock or surprise on seeing Mandelson waiting on the quayside... but then, these days he felt little about anything. 

When he'd thrown the pouch containing his talisman to his guardian, he'd also thrown away his feelings; his capacity for joy, for delight, for - yes, for love... all had gone, disappeared behind that glass curtain in his memory. The world was a grey, bleak place to him these days, and the only feelings that felt real to him were the darker ones; fear, grief, loneliness... misery...

Somehow Nick had always known that he would see the thaumaturge again, though. That it would be back in Goldeagle, and that Mandelson was still clearly a respected citizen here; yes, that did hurt. Maybe Ashdown had not understood him, and had not opened the pouch. Maybe he was still working on Roseheim docks, nameless and lost... 

"He looks healthy enough," Mandelson said, raking Nick from head to foot with that cold, critical gaze. 

"You have been too indulgent with him. No matter! You -" he pinned Nick with his gaze, "follow me, and be quick!"

As he spoke the thaumaturge turned on his heel and strode away, and Nick felt that old familiar tugging sensation in his chest, pulling him to follow... so, he was once again bound to Mandelson. The spell of obedience had previously been confining him to the _Red Rose_ , but now he felt nary a tug towards the ship as he walked silently behind his master back to the house on Cowley Street.

Once there he was despatched to the kitchen, where he was greeted with a brisk box about the ears and put to work, though it was clear that no-one on the household staff other than Mandelson and his journeymen recognised him, or cared to ask his name.

And that night, as he curled up in his old place by the hearth, Nick even found himself wondering if lovely, wonderful David, and the Midsummer Ball, and his Fae Godfather, had all been some wonderful, impossible dream...

He cried himself to sleep.

...

"My prince! David! I have news!"

George burst into the room and David looked up from his reading.

"What is it, George? Anything will be better than this -" with a gesture of disgust, David pushed the closely-written sheet of paper away from him. It slid across the desk and George caught it just before it fell to the floor.

"Another refusal to see what's under their noses from the good Aldermen of Goldeagle?" he enquired, briefly diverted by the sight of the Goldeagle seal, a soaring eagle stamped in yellow wax, affixed to the bottom of the document.

The prince nodded gloomily. "Not only do they refuse to see anything suspicious in the actions of 'one of their most active and worthy Council members'", he quoted by memory from the letter, "But they have also declared Master Ashdown to be an imposter, despite the united evidence of his crew and his crew's relatives! They cannot see what is under their very noses, George; it's as if they've all been put under a spell of, of blindness or something! It's so incredibly frustrating!"

"Well, perhaps they have been put under a full enchantment of some sort, and not merely manipulated," suggested George. "Have you spoken to Bercow?"

"I... now I come to think of it, no," responded David, an arrested expression on his face. "You know, George, I think you might have struck on something there. I was so focussed on the diplomatic route I never considered that Mandelson might have used his powers on more people than Ashdown... and Nick."

The prince's voice dropped on the last, and George, seeing the sadness begin to come over his friend's face, hastened to divert him.

"My prince, I said I had news," he said, deliberately cheerful. "My agent at Goldeagle docks has just sent word. Mandelson was there this morning, to meet an Imperial merchantman called the _Red Rose_. And when he left, he took a young man with him. A very shabby young man, tall, thin, dark-haired and very tanned. A young man, in fact, who looked very like Master Ashdown's description of the lad who gave him the snuffbox...

"It seems that Mandelson has heard of Master Ashdown's return, and wishes to keep Nick under his eye lest Ashdown find him!"

David was on his feet by the time George had finished speaking, his face alight with mingled hope and fear. Reaching out, he grasped George's arms almost bruisingly tight, shaking him. 

"Truly? Oh, is this true, George? My Nick is truly back? How can we, I mean, we have to get him out of Mandelson's grasp, I don't care how, but -"

"Be easy," said George soothingly. "You know we have planned for this. I have already sent to Master Ashdown; I need only your assent to send out the Heralds."

David let go, with an embarrassed laugh. "Yes. My apologies, my friend. You are right; it is time. At last, at last I can let myself hope...

"Make the arrangements. Send out the Court Heralds, and make sure that the chief of them is dispatched to Goldeagle. _All_ the markets, George, not only the main one. We must give them no excuse to pretend ignorance!"

...

The Court Heralds of Blueforest were a magnificent sight when in their full ceremonial livery, and the one who rode into Goldeagle's Great Market that afternoon was no exception. Riding a pure white horse covered in blue and gold barding, the herald, a tall, slim woman with bright gold hair worn in a thick plait wrapped around her head crown-fashion, was wearing a gold-embroidered blue velvet tabard over blue breeches and black boots polished to a mirror-like shine. At her side was her bugler, similarly clad but with less gold embroidery, and riding a black horse. 

Moving in such unison that the two horses were in perfect step with each other, amid a spreading silence as the citizenry saw them pass and turned to watch, the Herald trotted slowly towards the raised dais in the centre of the market place where the old Speaking Staff, known as the Black Rod, towered over the rows of stalls and dickering traders; the place from which announcements, regulations and news both good and bad had been read out, time out of mind. 

Reaching the dais, the Herald turned her horse to face outward and nodded to her bugler. The imperative notes rang across the market place, and complete silence fell as the gathered citizens waited to see what Blueforest had to tell them.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" The Herald's voice was full, rich, and trained to carry, and it rang across the wide square to rebound off the surrounding buildings.

"Be it known that on Midsummer's Day our Prince and Heir to the Duchy of Blueforest, the most noble David of the line of Torai, plighted his troth and gave his heart, as was his right and the tradition of his blood, to a young man of Goldeagle.

"Through the use of the most foul of magickal arts, the prince's chosen consort was then reft from him and hidden by use of uncanny sorcery, leaving behind only a ball mask gifted to the young man by his friends among the Fae.

"Prince David declares therefore, that this mask is to be taken to every household in Blueforest and Goldeagle, and every young man and woman of marriageable age is to attempt to put it on. 

"The power of the Fae will reveal all!"

The bugler blew the call which indicated the announcement was at an end, and the Herald departed the way she had come - leaving behind her a market a-buzz with excitement and speculation.

"Do you think it worked? Will Mandelson have heard?"

At the back of the crowd two anonymously-dressed citizens were standing. The older of the two snorted in response to the younger one's question. "I don't doubt he's heard, lad. The question is whether the mention of the mask will spook him into running, or whether the arrogant bastard will stick it out.

"My money's on him staying put. He's an Imperial, for a start; he'll never believe that any mere outlander could get the better of him, Fae-friend or no. And he has yet to fulfil his commission, and one thing that Imperial thaumaturges pride themselves on is in never failing to deliver... are you any closer to finding out who your traitor is?"

David shook his head. "Nothing yet. The head of our delegation in Roseheim, Sir Blair of Sedge's Field, is investigating quietly, but the need to avoid scandal means that matters are proceeding at a snail's pace."

He shrugged. "If I am honest, I do not care overly much. Mandelson has tried, and failed; and we are warned. I am more concerned about Nick. This has to work, Paddy. It has to!"

"Well then, let's get to it!" was the robust response, and together the two men turned and left.

The delegation from Blueforest which included David, George, and an Ashdown disguised as David's footman, carrying the mask on a velvet cushion, arrived at the house on Cowley Street that very evening. They had started a few streets away and worked their way towards their target, trying the mask on the young men and women just as the Herald had described (it had fitted none of them, of course). They had little hope of fooling Mandelson by doing this; it was an attempt to reassure the Goldeagle Council that all the prince was interested in was finding his consort-to-be. So far it seemed to be working; there had been no objections from the Aldermen or the Speaker, at any rate.

Sweeping in through the great arched gate which Mandelson had added to the house, the Blueforest delegation pulled up at the foot of the steps with a flourish. Before Ashdown, in his guise of footman, had a chance to knock on the front door it was flung open and Mandelson descended, flanked by his journeymen.

"Gentlemen. And Your Highness," he said, bowing to the exact depth required for royalty, with the precisely correct flourishes and gestures, but somehow still imbuing the whole courtesy with cold contempt. Behind him his journeymen followed suit, but with much less subtlety.

David stepped forward and bowed in his turn, taking pleasure in making it as shallow as he dared and barely nodding in acknowledgement of the journeymen. "Honoured Sir," he said curtly, refusing to give the other the courtesy of a title. "And you are?"

Anger flared in Mandelson's eyes at the insult from someone that he considered an uncivilised outlander barely two steps above barbarian, but he retained his self-control.

"I am Lord Mandelson of Roseheim, Imperial Thaumaturge and Alderman of Goldeagle Council, at your service," he said in frigid tones. "To what do I owe the inestimable honour of a visit from so exalted a personage?"

George stepped forward. "As an Alderman of the Council, you must have heard the announcement from the Blueforest heralds this afternoon. It was cried through all the markets and the main streets as well. We are here to carry out that mission, just as we have done at every house on this road."

Mandelson bowed again. "But of course," he said mildly. "Charles... Alastair. Step forward, if you please, and try on this... Fae mask."

One after the other, the two journeymen perfunctorily tried to don the mask. Naturally it fit neither of them. 

"And the rest of your household?" asked George. Shaking his head, Mandelson was clearly about to reply in the negative when George added, "I cannot believe that so great a household as this possesses no servants of marriageable age..."

Mandelson hesitated; then seemed to give in. "Oh, very well. Alastair, call the valets. Let us get this charade over with so I can get back to my work!"

As the young men emerged, one by one, and tried on the mask - reluctantly or eagerly but none with any success - George kept up a continual stream of inane chatter, pretending to encourage one, mocking another, anything to keep Mandelson's attention on the activity taking place in front of him while Ashdown slipped away on a mission of his own.

And then Ashdown was back, and Mandelson was saying, "That is the last of our servants. It seems that you will have to look elsewhere, your Highness."

That was when Ashdown took a hand. Striding forward until he was almost nose to nose with the Imperial, he snapped, "You damned liar! Where are your grooms? Where are your kitchen staff - why have we not seen them?"

And raising his voice, he called them forward from the rear courtyard where he had found all access to the front barred; save for the small side door in the stable block which Ashdown knew of old, and which he had put to good use to call everyone out to try the mask.

When he saw the young men and women emerge, Mandelson began to raise his crystal-headed cane, only to freeze in astonished fury as Ashdown placed his own hand on the crystal. There was a shower of sparks, and with an exclamation of pain Mandelson jerked the staff out of Ashdown's grasp, then stood wringing his hand, a pained expression on his face. 

Ashdown held the snuffbox up in front of Mandelson's eyes. "This blocks you," he said softly, the menace clear in his tones. "Would you like to find out what else it can do?"

The thaumaturge glared, but stayed silent as one after the other, his remaining servants tried the mask. Finally, there was just one boy left, a grimy, lanky, black-haired lad who was visibly trembling with excitement, made to stand and watch as the rest of the household went ahead of him. When his turn came David waved him forward, his eyes full of eagerness...

"I knew," David said afterward. "I knew you, Nick, through that seeming, past the spells and the magick. As soon as I met your eyes, I knew..."

The mask slipped on like a dream. As it slid on to and over the boy's face, there was a flicker - then a shiver, of red-and-silver light - and then, suddenly... there was Nick. Tanned by a fiercer sun than ever they had in Goldeagle, weatherbeaten by sea and sun, calloused and scarred and grimy... but still - Nick. His Nick...

With an inarticulate cry, David flung his arms about his love and forgot the world, for he held his own world, warm and willing and joyful, in his arms. David hugged and hugged, and felt that he would never let go... until he turned his head and met Nick's lips with his own, and another joy was added to the many...

... and so they kissed, and kissed, and might be kissing still, were it not that Nick's guardian and David's friend felt that there were still some matters to bring to a satisfactory end.

"So, you Imperial mage-for-hire, what is your explanation for this?" demanded Ashdown. "A merchant's apprentice sent to the kitchens and then illegally sold into slavery. A Master Merchant put under enchantment and his goods and trade reft from him by arcane means. I think that the Merchants' Guild will have something to say about such appalling contraventions of their Articles. Do you really want your compatriots at Court in Roseheim to hear of this?"

"The Guild is in the process of advancing the Emperor an extremely large loan for his latest building project," George chimed in. "I do not think he would wish for anything to jeopardise his good standing with them!"

"Do you think he would wish to hear of his thaumaturge's latest venture, George?"

"Oh, I think so, my prince. Yes indeed. Shall we send a report to our ambassador?"

"Ha! Your message will achieve nothing!" spat Mandelson - pale with shock and anger, but recovering fast. "You outlanders! So very ignorant of the true state of affairs! What, do you think all your people are so unthinkingly loyal to Blueforest?"

If he was hoping for surprise, or shock, he did not get it. Keeping one arm around Nick's shoulders, enjoying the feel of his love close by, while Nick slipped an arm surreptitiously around David's waist, the prince responded in a bored tone, 

"Oh, you mean the traitor in our diplomatic team at the Roseheim court, the one who engaged you to embark on this whole mess?"

Mandelson hissed with anger, chagrin writ large on his narrow features, but then Alastair leaned forward and murmured a few words in his ear, and he straightened, gathering his self-possession. "You know there is a traitor... but you do not know who he is. I am willing to bargain. A name for my freedom, and no word to the Guild of what has taken place here."

"You will return Ashdown's goods and property? You will resign from the Town Council and leave Goldeagle, never to return?" 

Mandelson gave a jerky, furious nod of assent to each question, and finally David turned to Nick.

"It is you who has been most wronged, my love," he said quietly. "Do you wish to see this snake punished as he deserves?"

Nick looked at Mandelson, seeming all at once somehow diminished, and at the two journeymen who had tormented him for so long, now watching him so anxiously; then turned back to David, who was watching him with eyes of love. No matter what he decided, he knew, David would stand by him; because David loved him. And that seemed the greatest miracle of all.

"So long as they all three leave these lands for ever," Nick said, his eyes brimful of happiness, "I care not where they go or what they do. Let them leave, David. You need not make any bargain for their departure though. I know the name of your traitor... It is Sir Blair of Sedge's Field.

"You should have been more careful of your papers when I was cleaning your rooms," he added to a gaping Mandelson, as George first gasped in shock at the revelation, then, eyes narrowing in thought, began to nod slowly to himself. 

"But then, you never believed that I had wit enough to read, did you?"

Nick turned back to David, moving into his arms and closing his eyes. "Now send them away, my love. I don't ever want to see them again... and besides," he lifted his head from David's shoulder, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "Don't we have a wedding to plan?"

...

So they did. And when that wedding took place, it was the biggest, noisiest, merriest wedding that Blueforest or Goldeagle had seen for many a year. Master Ashdown stood for Nick, and George stood for David. Wizard Bercow proclaimed the rite, and Simon provided Fae musicians for the dance and the wedding feast. 

And when they left for a honeymoon at sea on Master Ashdown's newly-rediscovered and re-purchased _Liberty Bird_ , it was in Simon's beloved yellow 'carriage'... much to David's chagrin! 

And so they lived Happily Ever After, and the tale of Cindernick ends here; but the tale of Nick the beloved consort of Prince (and later Duke) David of Blueforest, went on for many, many more happy years after that.

FIN


End file.
